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Mark Twain 

and 

The Happy Island 



by 

Elizabeth Wallace 

Author of 

A Garden of Paris 




Chicago 
A. C.McClurg & Co. 

19 13 



.W3 



Copyright 

A. C. McCLURG & CO. 

1913 



Published April, 1913 



Copyrighted in Great Britain 



W. F. MALL PRINTING COMPANY, CHICAGO 



5CI.A346340 
&0/ 



To all those 

who knew and loved Mark Twain 

on the Happy Island, 

this little book 
is hopefully dedicated 




A NOTE OF INTRODUCTION 



THIS little story of " The Happy Island " 
has a place of its own in Mark Twain 
literature, in that it presents an idyllic picture 
of our philosopher-humorist in the serener 
days of his later life — a picture of which the 
author herself was a part. 

Mark Twain always loved Bermuda, from 
the first day of his first visit, to that last day 
of his final visit, when he sailed away, with 
the shadows already gathering just ahead. 
Miss Wallace 9 s story is a tender one, showing 
him still full of life and health, and of that 
gracious sympathy with childhood which was 
always one of his chief characteristics and 
added comfort to his later years. 

The world will be the better and Mark 
Twain's memory the sweeter for these gentle 
chapters. 



CONTENTS 

CHAPTER PAGE 

I. The Sign of the Shell . . 1 

II. How History May Be 

Taught 11 

III. Some Literary Gossip ... SI 

IV. Spanish Point 31 

V. The Island Without Mark 

Twain 43 

VI. The Return 55 

VII. Battleships and Society . . 65 

VIII. Mark Twain's Aquarium . . 75 

IX. Odds and Ends ..... 85 

X. The King and Kipling . . 93 

XI. Stormfield 103 

XII. Stormfield, Happily 

Continued 115 

XIII. Letters 127 



ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

Mr. Clemens, Margaret, and Maude 

Frontispiece ^ 

Out from under the shadows stepped a 

gray figure % 

The great rambling hotel 4 w 

They went in the donkey-cart .... 6 L 

They jogged off down the road . . . . 12 ^ 

The history lesson 14 *S 

The far end of the island 22 * 

Past the quarry 32 / 

I think a photograph is a most important 

document" 34 

The houses were start! ingly white ... 38 

The sea dashed in spray upon the rocks . 40^ 

Parting came all too soon 44 ^ 

An old wall lapped by the waves . . . 46 v 

In the Botanical Gardens 48 v/ 

Past the town 50^ 

His companion was Henry H. Rogers . . 56 / 
Glances and cameras were always turned 

upon them 60 ^ 

The Chaplain's cousin 66 ^ 

They assumed a high moral attitude . . 70 

His light weight could not discourage her . 76 v 

The Angel-fish came into our circle . . 78 v 



Illustrations 



Society that Mr. Clemens loved . 
A bit of the Happy Island 
Maude's expression was hard to catch 
A house two or three centuries old 

Stormfield 

It was hard to tell which he loved best 

I want you to look at this view ' ' . 

And watch the sun paint the waters " 



80^ 
88' 



94 



j 



104 
116* 
128 *. 
138^ 



Cfte %isn of tftc ©ftcll 



Mark Twain and the 
Happy Island 

I CHAPTER I 

THE SIGN OF THE SHELL 

THE road to the hotel wound upward, 
and on either side of it palmettos 
rustled noisily beside still and somber 
cedars. 

Out from under their shadows stepped a 
gray figure with a crown of glistening white 
hair. He walked lightly and looked about 
him with an air of interested and unconscious 
expectancy. As he came nearer the hotel 
veranda we recognized the shaggy eyebrows, 
the delicately arched nose, the drooping mus- 
tache. Indeed, we had realized his personality 
the first moment that his figure had emerged 
from the semi-tropical background. He could 
be no other than Mark Twain. He passed 
up the steps and into the hotel, his head held 

1 



Mark Twain 



a little to one side, inquiringly. We heard a 
soft drawling voice for a moment and then a 
carriage clattered up to the veranda, bringing 
other guests, and we lost him. 

For it was the day when the unsteady but 
regular steamer brought us, once in ten days, 
news and passengers from the world. Two 
weeks before, we, the Lady Mother and I, 
had crossed the stormy sea, a sea so stormy 
that the short voyage of forty-five hours 
seemed an eternity cutting us off from our 
previous existence. This feeling of finality 
had given a mysterious attraction to the green 
islands which rose gently out of the sea before 
us on the early morning of the third day. 
This, and the change from bleak and wintry 
December to glorious glowing summer, made 
us suspect that we were under the spell of 
some lovely enchantment. This suspicion be- 
came settled conviction as our boat, so pathet- 
ically small in the New York dock, suddenly 
loomed up into stately proportions as she 
picked her way through the treacherously 
smiling channel. She had a wary but impor- 
tant air as she turned and twisted between 




Out from under the shadows 
stepped a gray figure 



The Sign of the Shell 



the tiny islets, and then drew up majestic- 
ally alongside the little wharf. And this 
conviction was deepened into happy accept- 
ance when we drove over white coral roads, 
bordered with palmettos and royal palms, 
when we saw banana groves and twenty-foot 
oleander hedges, when we breathed the fra- 
grance of magnolias and caught glimpses of 
gleaming white houses through thick tropical 
foliage, and white roads winding up little 
hillsides, and when there flashed before us a 
dash of white spray. 

There could be no doubt of it. A fairy 
had touched us with her magic wand, and we 
were again in the dreamy, happy days of the 
Golden Age. 

The great rambling hotel which was to be 
our home stood half a mile from the dock 
and down close by the shore. It was the only 
large wooden building on the island, and that 
in itself was a distinction. Its long verandas 
looked out over the blue waters of the harbor, 
and sail-boats came clustering about the stone 
pier, hoping to tempt unwary guests. 

Soon after coming to the Happy Island I 



4 Mark Twain 

found a companion and a playmate. It made 
little difference that Margaret's skirts were 
short and mine long, or that she wore her 
hair down and I wore mine up, and that she 
looked twelve years old while I only felt twelve. 
All this mattered little, for she had one of 
those understanding souls that knows with keen 
and sure intuition many things that others 
learn slowly and uncertainly. So she accepted 
me as her playmate, and we took long walks 
together, and exchanged confidences, and wove 
wonderful tales of magic and adventure and 
were quite content. 

As a usual thing, Margaret and I felt but 
a languid interest in the passengers who came, 
for they did not invade our world. But on 
the morning that Mark Twain arrived, we felt 
an unusual thrill, and we wondered if we 
might not see him once in a while. 

Until that day there had been very few 
guests, for it was the first of the year and the 
beginning of the season. But now the dining- 
room took on a distinctly populated appear- 
ance. 

Margaret's table was not far from ours, 



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The Sign of the Shell 



and that day she was sitting alone. Presently 
Mark Twain came in, and as he reached her 
table he stopped and spoke to her. He not 
only spoke to her, but had a conversation with 
her. I knew, then, that he had recognized her 
as one of the choice souls of the earth. 

As soon as Margaret had finished her 
luncheon, she came over to our table, her sweet 
face beaming, and said : " That nice old 
gentleman is Mr. Clemens, and he is so funny. 
He pretended to know me, and he wants me to 
ride with him in the donkey-cart this after- 
noon, but I told him I had an engagement 
with you, and could n't go." 

I told her I would release her from her 
engagement with me, for it was an honor to 
be invited to go with Mr. Clemens, an honor 
which she ought not lightly to forego. Then 
she told me in detail the conversation she had 
had with him. 

He had said, after a moment of apparent 
hesitation, and in a tone of surprise, "Why, 
how do you do? I am very much ashamed of 
myself, but I believe I've forgotten your 
name." 



6 Mark Twain 

Margaret: How do you do? I'm afraid I 
don't know you. 

Mr. Clemens (reproachfully): Have you 
forgotten me? / remember you very well. 
Your name is Janet. 

Margaret: Oh, no, sir: It isn't Janet. 

Mr. Clemens: I beg your pardon. I have 
a very bad memory. Oh ! now it comes to me. 
You are Dorothy. 

Margaret (entering into the spirit of the 
interview) : I'm afraid you have a bad mem- 
ory, sir, a very bad one ! 

Mr. Clemens (undaunted): Now, that's 
too bad. I was sure I would remember — I 
think it must be — Margaret. 

Margaret: Yes, that's my name. 

Mr. Clemens: But I'm very much grieved 
that you should have forgotten me. I think 
you ought to have some sort of a memoran- 
dum of me, so that the next time we meet I 
shouldn't be subjected to the same humiliating 
experience. [Here Mr. Clemens took a little 
pink shell out of his pocket and gave half of 
it to Margaret.] Take this and guard it 
carefully, and every time we meet hence- 




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The Sign of the Shell 



forward you can show me your half of the 
shell and I will show you mine, and if they 
match I shall know it's you and you will 
know it's I! 

Of course Margaret gleefully agreed, and 
as proof she showed me her half of the shell, 
repeating appreciatively: "Isn't he a dear, 
funny man ! " 

And just here, although not in chrono- 
logical order, I must relate the after-history 
of the divided shell. 

Some time afterwards Mr. Clemens had two 
pretty gold - enameled replicas of the shells 
made, and he presented one of them to Mar- 
garet. The other he hung on his watch-fob. 

Many months later Margaret went to visit 
Mr. Clemens in his Connecticut home. When 
the carriage drove up to the door Mr. Clemens 
was there to welcome his little friend, but 
Margaret looked at him gravely, hesitated a 
little, and then said : " Do you know if there 
is a nice old gentleman, by the name of Mr. 
Clemens, living here?" Mr. Clemens an- 
swered by drawing out his shell and showing 
it to her. She had hers in her hand. She 



8 Mark Twain 



compared them for a moment. Her face 
lighted up with a mischievous smile, and she 
ran into his outstretched arms, saying: 
"Why! you are Mr. Clemens!" 



l£>oto ^i0torp $@ap T5t Caugftt 



CHAPTER II 

HOW HISTORY MAY BE TAUGHT 

THAT afternoon Margaret went with 
Mr. Clemens in the donkey-cart. I 
saw them start, or, rather, try to 
start. For Maude was stubborn and it took 
some time to persuade her to move. Maude 
was diminutive in size, but the amount of 
obstinacy she possessed would have fitted out 
a mastodon, nicely. She was always attached 
to a small cart, and early every morning she 
was at her post in front of the hotel. She 
showed perfect indifference as to whether she 
went or came. Of course, she preferred a 
stationary attitude. 

Reginald was her guardian angel — a black 
little islander who enjoyed the distinction of 
being the only human being who could make 
Maude go. Later, Mr. Clemens discovered 
that he was also absolutely joke-proof. 

As Mr. Clemens, Margaret, Reginald, and 
Maude finally jogged off down the road and 

11 



12 Mark Twain 



disappeared at the turn, I felt a little lonely 
for my young playmate, and possibly a little 
envious. Why couldn't I, too, have been 
really twelve years old? 

The next morning after breakfast Mar- 
garet's loyal soul could no longer endure the 
strain of divided affections. She brought Mr. 
Clemens over to me and said: "You mustn't 
be rivals, and I want you to know each other." 
We said we would try to bury our hatred. 

In the happy weeks that followed, the Mark 
Twain of Roughing It and of Innocents 
Abroad, of Tom Sawyer and of Huckleberry 
Finn, became Mr. Clemens of the Happy 
Island, and his companionship in gentle ex- 
cursions, along peaceful, shady roads, was 
even more delectable than when he had led us 
over western plains or on European jaunts. 
In the delight of knowing Mr. Clemens we 
almost forgot Mark Twain. This charming, 
courteous gentleman, with the crown of sil- 
ver hair, with his immaculate white clothes, 
his kindly deference of manner, his ready 
thoughtfulness, and his sweet affection for 
children, was sufficient in himself to win any- 




They jogged off down the road 



How History May Be Taught 13 

one's heart, without the prestige of the other 
name. 

I think it was the next morning after the 
meeting of the rivals that the history lessons 
began. We were at breakfast, and from our 
table I could see both Mr. Clemens and Mar- 
garet. I noticed Mr. Clemens writing for a 
while quite busily. Then he called the satur- 
nine head waiter and gave him a card, with 
instructions. The unsmiling messenger took 
the card and carried it over to Margaret. 
She looked at it and nodded back smilingly 
at Mr. Clemens. The mystery was solved 
after breakfast when Margaret brought me 
the card, on which was inscribed her lesson 
in history. Mr. Clemens followed the pic- 
torial method, and he used ingenious devices 
for fixing the length of a king's reign. For 
instance, on this particular card he wished to 
represent William the Conqueror. He had 
drawn a grotesque figure made with eleven 
legs and ten arms, which meant that he had 
reigned twenty-one years. Could there have 
been anything more lucid? 

After breakfast, when he met Margaret, he 



14 Mark Twain 

asked her in his gentle drawl: "Margaret, 
how many arms and legs did William have ? " 
Upon her replying promptly, "Twenty- 
one!" he said, "Extraordinary, wasn't it, 
dear ? Extraordinary ! " 

These history lessons continued with regu- 
larity, to our great delight. I remember that 
Stephen was a huge foot with nineteen toes. 
Henry II was a head with a mouth made like 
this: $ — 35 — $. Richard the Lion Hearted 
was a lion. Half of him was drawn on one 
side of the card, with " over " written under- 
neath, and on the reverse sprawled the last 
half of him. In his mouth was a heart, and, 
dangling from it, a card bearing the dates 
1180-1199. 

The dining-room was a large light room 
overlooking the sea. The meals were leisurely 
to the last degree, and it was a very nice 
place in which to make informal calls. Mr. 
Clemens was rather abstemious, and when he 
had finished earlier than the rest of us he 
would often come over to our table and talk. 
His whimsical way of putting things, his deep 
knowledge of human nature, his half-pessimis- 



a 



How History May Be Taught 15 

tic philosophy, his kindly toleration, in most 
things, made everything he said so precious 
that we did not want to lose a word. The 
morning after we had heard of the assassina- 
tion of the King and the Crown Prince of 
Portugal he came over and sat down, and the 
conversation naturally turned on that topic. 
Did you ever realize," he said, " how awfully 
difficult it is to kill a king? Think how many 
times it has been tried, and how often it fails ! 
They tried it eighteen times on Henry IV, 
many times on Queen Victoria, and we don't 
know how many countless times on the Em- 
peror of Russia. Will those anarchists never 
learn that when the heart is filled with hate 
the hand that aims the weapon will surely 
tremble ! " 

From this we went on to speak of certain 
common traits of the human race, and Mr. 
Clemens launched forth on a tirade against 
the general asininity of us all. Hysterical 
hero-worship and the fickleness of public 
favor were touched upon. Mr. Clemens grew 
eloquent and took as a symbol a temporary 
triumphal arch — one built for a popular 



16 Mark Twain 

hero. " It was made of staff and plaster 
because the people hadn't time, they hadn't 
time [I can still hear the insistent nasal drawl 
which gave such a world of meaning to these 
words] to build a more enduring token. They 
would build it in marble, later — yes, later, 
when they had more time! The plaster arch 
crumbled away, but later, when they had time, 
there was no hero to whom to build the 
enduring arch." 

We happened to mention the description of 
the Bander-log in the Jungle Book as one of 
the best satires ever written on the human 
race. This gave Mr. Clemens another 
text, upon which he grew wonderfully elo- 
quent. Yes, we were all Bander-log, and the 
biggest Bander-log of all was whoever sat 
in the executive chair of the nation. He 
wondered why the Almighty had ever created 
us. It was bad enough to have concocted the 
house-fly, or to have imagined rats and mice, 
but the Bander-log was the crowning mistake. 
And then, to conceive of the idea that this 
same Almighty who had created us wanted to 
have our company through all eternity ! He 



How History May Be Taught 17 

laughed gently as he finished his blasphemous 
tirade, and, looking at the Lady Mother, who 
wore a slightly puzzled expression, he added: 
" Now, you must forget all that I 've said, 
and if the Recording Angel brings this up 
against me I shall simply tell him that I never 
said anything of the sort, that it was those 
W s who were talking!" 



Some JLitetatp <8o0$ip 



i 



CHAPTER III 

SOME LITERARY GOSSIP 

ONCE in a while it rained on the Happy 
Island, and when it did, it did it 
thoroughly. The water came down 
in sheets and torrents, sweeping in from the 
sea, across the harbor, blotting out the islands 
and filling the air indoors with moisture. At 
such times it was impossible to brave the 
weather, for the most impermeable protection 
became soaked. One compensation, however, 
was, that the instant the rain ceased, the hard, 
white coral roads were as passable as ever. 
You could walk out, holding your head high, 
and with no fear of bringing up in a mud 
puddle. 

One Sunday morning the weather was thus 
comporting itself, and it was hard to mark the 
dividing line between sea and rain-drenched 
atmosphere. We went out on the veranda, 
where we found a protected spot and some 
capacious chairs. Margaret had been con- 

21 






22 Mark Twain 

demned to write letters, and Mr. Clemens 
missed her. He came out on the veranda and 
joined us. He was dressed, as he always was 
in daytime the last few years of his life, in 
white serge. The only color about him was 
the dark brown of a row of cigars in either 
breast-pocket. The row diminished as the 
morning progressed. He was always immacu- 
late, although he wore his clothes easily, and 
there was never anything about him to sug- 
gest that he himself cared how he looked. His 
beautiful white hair curled softly in the damp- 
ness, and he was the image of picturesque 
comfort as he pulled at his cigar and talked. 
It may have been the suggestion of the day, 
but, whatever it was, something moved him to 
discuss missionaries. This subject, together 
with old-fashioned orthodoxy, were topics 
that invariably stirred him to satiric loquacity. 
He gave the poor missionaries no quarter, he 
made no exceptions, they were all impaled 
upon the sharp brochette of his keen diction 
and grilled by the fire of his contempt. And 
all that he said, he said in his quiet slow 
drawl, with a twinkle of the eye, once in a 



Some Literary Gossip 23 

while — a twinkle that one did not often see, 
unless one looked carefully, for his bushy 
eyebrows almost concealed the deep gray- 
green eyes. He often made us wait for a 
word, but when it came it was the only one 
in the Century Dictionary that could so 
exactly have conveyed to us what he wanted 
to say. 

There sat not far from us a sweet soul 
whose heart was deeply interested in the mis- 
sionary cause. All unconscious of this, Mr. 
Clemens went on. A long time afterward he 
learned that she had overheard the conversa- 
tion and the quick expression of his regret 
showed that his kind heart saw no humor in 
that situation. 

After an exhaustive arraignment of mis- 
sionaries and their weaknesses, something was 
said about Mr. Clemens's recent story of 
" Captain Stormfield's Heavenly Experi- 
ences," which had shortly before appeared in 
magazine form. Mr. Clemens chuckled as he 
asked us if we remembered the picture of 
Heaven as presented in Elizabeth Stuart 
Phelps's book, Gates Ajar. He said that 



24 Mark Twain 

when he read that book he was deeply im- 
pressed by what seemed a sentimental and 
foolish idea. He resolved to satirize it, and 
wrote the first draught of Captain Stormfield. 
The result did not quite suit him, and, besides, 
he hesitated to publish it so soon after the 
appearance of Miss Phelps's book. So he put 
the manuscript aside, and it was almost for- 
gotten. Then one day he came across it, 
thought it worth publishing, and sent it to 
the magazine where it appeared. 

His cigars were not all smoked, and the 
rain continued to fall prodigiously and so we 
led him on to talk of other books he had 
written. One that he loved best of all, per- 
haps, and that is not nearly so widely read as 
his others, was Personal Recollections of Joan 
of Arc. He said that for years he had been 
impressed by the spirit of the French heroine, 
and year by year, for twelve years, he had laid 
by in his memory, and in his notes, every im- 
pression he could get of her. The most thrill- 
ing historical document he had ever read, he 
said, was the official account of her trial. And 
he regretted that he had not traveled in the 



Some Literary Gossip 25 

parts of France where she had lived. Finally 
the time came when he could write of her, and 
he found that she stood forth in his mind, a 
clear, convincing figure. 

There was a silence as he finished speaking 
of her, and we looked almost reverently on 
this man, who had seen into the heart of a 
simple peasant maid, and had understood the 
inspiration that had transformed her into the 
savior of France, and yet had kept her girl- 
ishly gay and womanly sweet. 

The silence was broken by Mr. Clemens, 
who said, whimsically : " My books are really 
exceedingly serious and have been made the 
subject of profound study." He then told us, 
with much relish and some elaboration, the 
history of the Mark Twain Club. 

One day he had received a communication 
from the north of England. The letter was 
written on heavily embossed and crested paper, 
and was to the effect that a club had been 
organized for the purpose of studying the 
works of the great American humorist. The 
writer delicately hinted that this had not yet 
been done in a scholarly and scientific manner, 



26 Mark Twain 

and that it was the intention of the Club to 
delve deeply into the stores of philosophic 
wisdom which were sometimes hidden from the 
casual reader by the super-fabric of wit and 
humor. The organization, with the permis- 
sion of Mr. Clemens, should be known as The 
Mark Twain Club, and would feel itself much 
honored if it might send the record of its 
proceedings to Mr. Clemens. 

Mr. Clemens was pleased, very much 
pleased. His works had not received the 
attention from scholars and from learned 
societies that he felt they deserved. Now 
justice would be done them. 

With some pardonable degree of compla- 
cency he received and read the first papers of 
The Mark Twain Club. They were most 
satisfactory. The Club had printed not only 
the record of proceedings, but also the studies 
presented. From time to time Mr. Clemens 
received these reports. The society was evi- 
dently flourishing. A letter came from the 
President saying that the Club had decided 
to have an emblem ; that, after much thought 
and consideration, a suitable design had been 



Some Literary Gossip 27 

chosen, and that they begged Mr. Clemens to 
do them the honor of accepting one. A few 
days later a small box arrived containing a 
very beautiful and curiously wrought pin set 
with a number of precious stones. Mr. Clem- 
ens took great pleasure in wearing the pin 
and in carelessly saying to inquiring friends : 
" Oh, yes ! that 's the pin of The Mark Twain 
Club, an English organization. — Yes, it's 
very interesting.'' 

After some time the publications of The 
Mark Twain Club ceased to come, and the 
incident began to lose some of its vividness. 

When Mr. Clemens was making his lecture 
tour around the world, a fine-looking gentle- 
man approached him at Sydney, Australia, 
after his lecture, and said: "Mr. Clemens, I 

am Sir , the President of The Mark 

Twain Club. It would give me great pleasure 
if you would take supper with me. I could 
then give you some interesting details regard- 
ing the Club." 

Mr. Clemens accepted, with pleasurable 
curiosity. When they were seated at table 
the Englishman leaned over and said, in a 



28 Mark Twain 

confidential tone, "I am The Mark Twain 
Club." He then went on to explain that some 
time before he had suffered from a nervous 
breakdown and, while in that condition, he 
was ordered by his physician to abstain en- 
tirely from all mental excitement. He had 
thereupon retired to his estate in the north of 
England and, while there, had conceived of 
the happy idea of the Club, as furnishing a 
mild distraction without any attendant mental 
strain. He was the charter member. There 
had never been any others. 

"But the pins?" queried Mr. Clemens. 

"You are wearing the only one that was 
ever made," replied the courteous founder of 
The Mark Twain Club. 



©panisft point 



CHAPTER IV 

SPANISH POINT 

ONE brilliant Sunday afternoon we went 
to Spanish Point. When Mr. Clemens, 
Maude, Reginald, and one or two 
others went, there was always a preliminary 
animated discussion as to who should ride. 
Maude, obviously, could n't. Reginald, offi- 
cially, could not. It was an open question, 
never quite settled, as to which was the more 
strenuous exercise, urging the reluctant 
Maude to go, or tramping alongside trying 
to keep her slow pace. Sometimes we would 
toss a penny and abide by its fall, or Mr. 
Clemens would gravely refer the decision to 
Margaret, as the most serious of the party. 
Then the two destined to the more vigorous 
work entered the cart and moved off down the 
road and up the hill past the quarry, on the 
way to Spanish Point, two miles away. 

The shell road, smooth and hard, was bor- 
dered on either side by mossy stone walls- 

31 



32 Mark Twain 

Over these walls hung the beautiful purple 
vines of the bougainvillea, heather with its 
small scarlet flower, or yellow clusters of the 
pigeon-berry. Sometimes the stone wall 
stopped and a hedge of the variegated match- 
us-if-you-can took its place, behind which 
rose the hectic blossoms of the hibiscus. Here 
and there drooped a grove of palms where 
bananas clustered thickly on the branches, and 
then tall cocoanut trees swept up to greater 
heights. Just beyond a grove of sweet-scented 
cedars a hospitable gateway broke the wall. 
It bore an attractive legend, like Norwood, or 
Soncy, or Olive Hill, and a driveway fringed 
by a marvelous tropic growth led windingly to 
some big, low, white coral-stone house, over- 
run with veranda-roses and all sorts of sweet 
perfumed flowers. 

The air was limpid and soft, the houses 
were startlingly white, and the brilliant foli- 
age led a reckless and vivid existence on either 
side of the imperturbably hard and dry road. 
Sometimes we would stop suddenly at the 
clear, sweet notes of a cardinal bird and catch 
a glimpse of his scarlet coat against the deep 



Spanish Point 33 

green of the cedar. Sometimes we would look 
out between the trees to the blue glimmer of 
the harbor, where sails looked like white clouds 
as they flitted past. 

Mr. Clemens was in a particularly happy 
and reminiscent mood ; but when I try to put 
down what he said I feel that it lacks the 
pungency of the sea air and the charm of his 
drawl. 

Mr. Clemens was more often serious than 
humorous in conversation, and I never knew 
him to be funny for the mere sake of being 
funny. He never seemed to say anything to 
win applause or to evoke laughter. If he 
said a humorous thing, it had to be humorous 
enough to satisfy his own sense of humor. 
It must not fall below his own ideal. I never 
knew him to say a clever thing at the sacri- 
fice of a kind thing, nor a witty thing 
divorced from truth. I don't mean mere 
vulgar facts, but truth, truth about human 
nature — he was always true to that. 

We had scarcely lost the hotel from view 
when we met a group of gentlemen, evidently 
tourists. One of them came eagerly up to us 



34 Mark Twain 

and, accosting Mr. Clemens, said: "I beg 
your pardon, Mr. Clemens, but my daughter 
is particularly fond of your writings. Would 
you object if I took a picture of you for 
her? " Mr. Clemens, who chanced to be walk- 
ing at that particular moment, answered 
immediately : " Certainly not, sir. Where do 
you wish me to stand?" The man became so 
nervous that he couldn't snap his kodak and 
handed it to his companion, exclaiming: 
" Say, you take it ! I guess you can manage 
it better than I can." 

As we passed on we asked Mr. Clemens if 
he didn't ever get tired of being bothered in 
this way, but he replied that it was very 
little trouble to stop for a moment, and was 
most gratifying to his vanity ! I had noticed 
that Mr. Clemens always assumed a dignified 
pose at such times, with a serious, almost 
severe expression of face. When he was 
spoken to of this he said : " I think a photo- 
graph is a most important document, and 
there is nothing more damning to go down to 
posterity than a silly, foolish smile caught and 
fixed forever." 




"I think a photograph is 
a most important document 



Spanish Point 35 

Mr. Clemens had presented me the day 
before with a precious volume which he had 
discovered in the island book store, entitled 
Beeton* s Complete Letter-Writer for Gentle- 
men. It had appealed to Mr. Clemens's sense 
of humor. He had written this inscription on 
the blank page, " To Young Lady desirous 
of perfecting Herself in the Epistolary Art 
[date in full] . Dear Miss : Try Bee- 
ton, Trust Beeton, Beeton is your friend. 
Have no fear. Sincerely yours, S. L. Clem- 
ens." This choice book we carried with us 
and regaled ourselves, from time to time, with 
particularly rare specimens of the epistolary 
art. 

Apropos of this book Mr. Clemens told a 
story he remembered from his boyhood, of a 
negro who was up north and who wanted to 
communicate with his mother down south. He 
went to his mistress with a Complete Letter- 
Writer in his hand, having selected therefrom 
a model entitled : " From a Young Man pro- 
posing marriage to the Lady of His Choice." 
He insisted upon his mistress copying this 
verbatim. Protests were in vain, and she was 



36 Mark Twain 

obliged to reproduce the ardent but utterly 
inappropriate words. She learned months 
afterward that the letter had had an enormous 
success, and that all the darkies on the planta- 
tion had tried to emulate this effort. The 
mother was pleased beyond words, and the 
letter became an authority to be consulted by 
everyone, no matter to whom or about what 
he was writing. 

This story led us to talk of life and its 
disappointments. Mr. Clemens advanced a 
favorite theory: "If I had been helping the 
Almighty in his job I would have commenced 
at the other end, and have the human race 
begin with old age. It would have been in- 
finitely better and more logical to begin as 
old men, and have all our woes and aches and 
troubles over in a few years. They would be 
much easier to bear sustained by the hope of 
a joyful youth. And think of the exhilara- 
tion and inspiration of reaching eighteen and 
knowing that you were never to be old and 
wrinkled again. Yes, the Almighty made a 
pretty bad job of it, pretty bad!" 



"Spanish Point 37 

By this time Maude's pace, which had grad- 
ually been growing more languid, stopped 
altogether, and we decided to rest a while by 
the roadside. Across the road was a house 
two or three centuries old. It had evidently 
not been whitewashed for years, and had be- 
come a beautiful soft gray. It reminded us 
of Ohl England, whence its first owners had 
doubtless come, and we asked Mr. Clemens to 
tell us of some of his summer experiences on 
the British Isles. 

Although the experience of the previous 
summer, when the Oxford degree had been 
conferred upon him, had probably been the 
culminating one of his life, he very seldom 
spoke of its events or referred in any way to 
the wonderful homage he had everywhere re- 
ceived. So when we asked him he replied: 
" There was one incident that may amuse you 
as it did me. It was on the occasion of the 
Open Air Pageant at Oxford. I had been 
detained and came in a little late, with Lord 
Curzon and Rudyard Kipling. We were con- 
ducted to a box, and, when seated, a note was 



38 Mark Twain 

passed to us — a little slip of paper on which 
was written, ' Not true.' Upon opening the 
paper, we found inside these lines of Kipling : 

" East is East and West is West 
And never the Twain shall meet." 

As he finished the story, he added: "By the 
way, the best picture I ever had taken was 
at that time. We were coming out in pro- 
cession, and I was walking beside Sidney Lee. 
Mr. Kipling was behind me, and someone with 
a camera tried to snap him; but the kodak 
slipped, or something happened, and it turned 
out that I had eclipsed him completely, and 
there was nothing left but the tip of his ear." 

Maude was now sufficiently rested, and we 
got up to jog along to Spanish Point. The 
sea was very beautiful and dashed in spray 
upon the rocks. We gathered shells and pol- 
ished pebbles, and wrote names in the sand, 
and then turned to come back. 

Mr. Clemens talked of his father and of 
the latter's attitude toward the slave trade. 
He told us with much chuckling of the time 
he took his mother to a minstrel show, having 
deluded her into the belief that she was going 



«0 

CO 

S 

© 



5S 



*> £ 




Spanish Point 39 

to hear some African missionaries. And that 
reminded him of a later incident, which he 
related thus : " I have n't told you of the 
time I was asked to address John D. Rocke- 
feller Jr.'s Sunday-school class, have I? 
Well, once John D. Jr. sent me an invitation 
to talk to his class on any subject I might 
choose, taken from the Bible. Just before 
this time John D. Jr. had been whitewashing 
Joseph a good deal, and making him out to 
be a pretty fine fellow. So when the letter 
came with this invitation I said to my secre- 
tary: 'You just write to Mr. Rockefeller 
that the only subject that seems to interest me 
very much just now is the subject of Joseph, 
but that I'm afraid that what I have to say 
about him won't exactly meet with his views.' 
This was written to him, and by the next mail 
came a very polite answer from Mr. Rocke- 
feller saying that he was sure that anything 
I would have to say would be most profitable, 
but that perhaps it would be advisable for me 
to jot down my thoughts and send them to 
him beforehand. I followed his happy sug- 
gestion, and I exposed Joseph in a way he 



40 Mark Twain 

had never been exposed before, and I said 
what I thought of his whole Egyptian policy 
in perfectly plain terms. It was really very 
good," and Mr. Clemens gave a reminiscent 
chuckle. "I sent the manuscript on to Mr. 
Rockefeller, and, do you know, he never 
pursued the subject!" 

Maude realized the nearness of home and 
food and mended her pace. Margaret ex- 
claimed gleefully : " Oh, Mr. Clemens ! She 's 
going, she's trotting!" And with a trium- 
phant wave of the whip, they left us behind 
and we heard no more stories that afternoon. 



5>5 









40 

53 



^5 

g 

O 

s 




C&e Mand tottbout e@ark Ctoain 



CHAPTER V 

THE ISLAND WITHOUT MARK TWAIN 

THE time of parting came all too soon. 
Mr. Clemens had to be back in New 
York to be host at a very special 
luncheon, and Margaret had to submit to 
some educational discipline which we privately 
decided she could easily get along without. 
However, parental prejudices have to be con- 
sidered, and we had to bow to the inevitable. 

The day before they sailed, Margaret said 
to me, "Is there a Mrs. Clemens in New 
York?" I told her that Mrs. Clemens had 
gone very far away and would never come 
back. "Has Mr. Clemens any little girls?" 
pursued Margaret. I answered that his girls 
were now big girls, but that he had lost one 
whom he now remembered as his little girl, 
and whom he had loved very tenderly, and 
that this was the reason he loved other little 
girls so much. It made him less lonely when 

43 



44 Mark Twain 

he had them about him. Margaret thought 
for a moment; then, her brown eyes full of 
tenderness, " I wish / was Mrs. Clemens, and 
then I would just care for him and care for 
him, and love him awfully ! " 

Margaret felt for him the deep affection 
that children have for an older person who 
understands them and treats them with re- 
spect. Mr. Clemens never talked down to her, 
but considered her opinions with a sweet dig- 
nity. This wonderful comprehension that he 
had of children, and his perfect sympathy for 
them, helped us to understand better the sim- 
plicity of his own character. When we were 
with him, we, too, felt like little children. 
All pretentious wisdom, all sophisticated 
phrases, all acquired and meaningless con- 
ventions were laid aside, and we said what 
we meant, and spontaneity took the place of 
calculation, and we became simple and un- 
afraid, and sure of being understood. 

We went down to the boat to say good-by 
to Margaret and Mr. Clemens. The latter, 
however, hated farewells of any kind, and so 
he went directly to his cabin and did not 







5*. 






The Island Without Twain 45 

emerge therefrom until they had lifted 
anchor. 

As the ship sailed away bearing the sweet 
little girl, Margaret, and the sweet old man, 
Mr. Clemens, we felt that the island had 
grown suddenly smaller, that the colors had 
faded, and that there was a chill in the air. 
As we turned away from the dock, however, 
we saw the familiar form of Maude, standing 
quiet, imperturbable, unmoved by any emo- 
tion, and we felt comforted. 

Mr. Clemens had not cared for sailing, so 
when he had gone we thought to distract our 
minds by this. Neither was the Lady Mother 
fond of this particular amusement. The next 
morning after the steamer went away, I sug- 
gested to her that we take a sail. She was 
examining the interior of a sago-palm at that 
moment, but she heard my wild proposition. 
She looked at me pityingly and said: "I 
want to enjoy my stay here." 

She had been inveigled into a rowboat one 
day. She stepped into it gingerly, and then 
sat in rigid misery for nearly an hour, eyeing 
with distrust the other craft in the harbor, 



46 Mark Twain 

for she attributed to them all a sinister inten- 
tion of running us down. So she was not to 
be persuaded. 

However, a companion was found, and we 
went down to the pier where the boats stand 
waiting for customers. The skippers are 
haughty men who do not beg for patronage. 
In this they have a social standing far above 
that of the rowboat men, who shamelessly 
clamor for passengers. 

We took the blackest skipper we could find. 
He was big and muscular and passing 
homely, but he had a settled gravity that 
won our confidence immediately. He seemed 
to regard with some disdain our order to sail 
among the islands, so that we might take 
pictures. His disdain grew into a withering 
contempt when our taste in subjects was re- 
vealed. He suggested a big new house that 
stared unblinkingly out on the view. When 
we showed no appreciation he grew silent and 
taciturn and eyed us with suspicion from time 
to time. All interest in us died out, and he 
seemed to grow deaf and dumb when we asked 
him to go near an old wall lapped by the 




An old wall Japped by the waves 



The Island Without Twain 47 

waves, where cedars and oleanders grew, and 
where the naked, lace-like branches of a 
Pride-of-India tree were outlined against the 
sky. Only once did he vouchsafe to talk, and 
that was when we had beguiled him to tell us 
about the Boer prisoners. "Yes, they used 
to be on that island. They lived in tents and 
had good things to eat. The men were on 
one island, the boys on another, and the hos- 
pital over there on still another. They were 
very religious, and every afternoon at five you 
could hear them singing hymns." "Did any 
one ever try to escape? " we queried. " Oh, 
yessum; several. There was one who cut 
down a cedar tree one night and threw it into 
the water, then jumped in himself, thrust his 
head up through the branches, and swam 
slowly down to the hotel. He was an officer, 
and had it all arranged with his friends who 
were stopping at the hotel. They gave him 
clothes and took care of him that night, and 
the next morning he went on board the 
steamer like any ordinary passenger, and so 
got to New York. There was another poor 
fellow who wasn't so successful. He took a 



48 Mark Twain 

box and cut air-holes in it, and used that for 
a head covering while he swam out towards an 
American ship. As bad luck would have it, a 
sailor who knew a bit about tides saw this box 
apparently floating out, while the tide was 
coming in. He thought there was something 
mighty queer about that, and he sailed up 
alongside. The Boer was taken again." 
"And what happened to him ? " " He was 
shot, madam." 

Our skipper was actually growing garru- 
lous. We were fascinated, not only by his 
stories, but by his language. It seemed 
strange to hear a black, black negro speak 
with an English accent and use almost elegant 
phraseology. The first time I had been im- 
pressed by this characteristic of the black 
people of the island was when, a day or two 
after our arrival, we had gone to the Botan- 
ical Gardens. Seeing a very strange-looking 
tree, I asked a darkey who was working near 
by, what the name of it was. He replied in- 
stantly with a rather long and complicated 
name, which I did not quite catch. I said, "Is 
that its botanical name ? " To which the 




In the Botanical Gardens 



The Island Without Twain 49 

dusky gentleman answered : " Well, madam, 
to a certain extent it is." 

When the lunch hour made itself felt we 
gave the word to go home, and our skipper 
made a good landing at the pier, where other 
boats had already come in. Others followed, 
sails were lowered, and soon there were half a 
dozen or more clustering about the stone land- 
ing, their slender masts outlined gracefully 
against the sky. The wind went down as 
though it, too, needed a siesta, and the sky 
began to veil itself in soft gray clouds. 

The moonlight nights were very clear and 
beautiful, and when by chance there was a 
breeze, just enough to ruffle the surface of 
the water and to fill the sails, and when there 
was a softness in the air, then we would go 
out after dinner. And as I think of it now I 
re-live the scene. As we go down to the pier 
our voices ring clear in the still air. The 
bumping of the boat against the wall echoes 
with a hollow sound — the song of a lonely 
oarsman in a distant boat comes distinctly 
over the water. 

We get in and tuck the steamer rugs about 



50 Mark Twain 

us, and in a minute a breeze catches us, the 
boat bends to it, its bow cutting through the 
dark water with a gleam of white foam. Above 
us the stars shine, some large and still, with 
steady yellow light, others far away and cold, 
and others twinkling uncertainly, but with a 
friendly, familiar air, as if to say, " We, too, 
are small and unsure of our existence." We 
sail down the harbor, past the town, where 
lights are gleaming from the windows of 
white houses, and the hills beyond show little 
twinkling stars of light through the black of 
the cedars. The rival hotel has lights stream- 
ing from every window, and we can hear the 
broken strains of a two-step, which sound like 
the intermittent efforts of a lame man to 
dance. 

Tied up to a wharf is the Halifax steamer, 
getting ready to sail at midnight for the 
West Indies. Slender fingers of yellow light 
point from its portholes, the donkey engine 
creaks dolorously, and melodious darkey voices 
are heard singing out orders. We pass over 
the wavering reflections in the water, and, 
catching a stronger breeze, we sail out into the 



« ^ ^ 

'"S t»j -fc^ 



m 



.'1: "* 



n. 




The Island Without Twain 51 

larger harbor, where the emerald islands look 
black against the steely water. Clouds have 
come across the moon, clouds that hint at 
storms, but there is still a silver path down to 
our boat. 

We grow silent, for the beauty of the scene 
enters into our hearts, and night is voiceless 
and needs no empty words to sing its praises. 
Our boat glides along, with scarcely the 
sound of a ripple. The sail is black against 
the sky, and we are borne to the mystic land 
of night and dreams, down the silvery path of 
moonbeams. 



C6e IReturn 



CHAPTER VI 

THE RETURN 

THE Happy Island was only two weeks 
without Mr. Clemens, after all, and 
our hearts were filled with joy when 
his return was announced. This time he came 
to stay for a longer period. His companion 
was Mr. Henry H. Rogers, a tall, distin- 
guished looking man, with a fine-cut profile 
and clear young coloring. He had been ill 
and had chosen to come here with his long- 
time friend to recuperate. It was always a 
mooted question whether Mr. Rogers took 
care of Mr. Clemens or Mr. Clemens of Mr. 
Rogers. It was a question that they took 
much delight in unsettling. 

But there was no Margaret. I had been 
instructed to try to fill her place with some 
other choice soul, and that was the way the 
Angel Fish came into our circle. She, how- 
ever, belongs to another chapter. 

Mr. Clemens and Mr. Rogers secured a 
55 



56 Mark Twain 

table near ours in the dining-room, and there 
was much visiting back and forth. The first 
morning, after breakfast, we met with Mr. 
Rogers to organize what we were pleased to 
call the S. L. C. Life-Saving Society. Mr. 
Rogers gravely stated that Mr. Clemens, 
being of a guileless and unsuspecting nature, 
was sometimes led away by designing and not 
altogether desirable strangers. His kind heart 
could never permit him to refuse himself to 
anyone who might address himself to him, 
and the result was that he was sometimes 
drawn into annoying relationships. The plan 
of action of the S. L. C. Life-Saving Society 
was to be as follows: when we should see 
Mr. Clemens engaged in conversation with a 
doubtful party, we were to go up to him and 
say, " Pardon me, but Mr. Rogers is looking 
for you, and would like to speak to you 
immediately." Mr. Clemens, to whom was to 
be revealed the full significance of this phrase, 
would thereupon take warning and discreetly 
withdraw. 

It was soon after their arrival that we 
began to call Mr. Clemens the King. The 




His companion was Henri/ II. Rogers 



The Return 57 



title had already been given to him by a small 
circle of loving friends. We quickly felt the 
appropriateness of the name, for we realized 
that we had never known anyone who made 
his personality to be felt more than he did, 
and yet without any effort. He just was. 

The King hit upon the happy idea of 
calling Mr. Rogers the Rajah. And so they 
remained for us to the end of the chapter — 
an ending that came, alas ! all too soon. 

Mr. Clemens never grew tired of poking 
fun at Mr. Rogers and his stately, dignified 
manner. One day, as the latter came into the 
dining-room, a little late, with his slow step, 
Mr. Clemens, who was already seated at the 
table, said, "There he comes, looking just 
like Gibbs' Lighthouse, stiff and tall, turning 
his lights from side to side ! " 

Their deep and strong affection for each 
other usually manifested itself verbally in this 
sort of whimsical abuse. 

One of our first excursions together, after 
the return, was to Prospect Park. 

Prospect Park has many charms, the great- 
est of which is the prevalence of scarlet 



58 Mark Twain 

military coats. For Prospect Park is the 
garrison, and not to go to at least one func- 
tion is to be hopelessly civilian, which is an- 
other name for plebeian. None of us wished 
to be that. Besides, Mr. Clemens had a 
particularly tender spot in his heart for all 
things English, since the loving reception he 
had had the summer before from all classes 
on the British Isles. As we look back we see 
Prospect Park colored with many joys, and 
we were grateful to the Home Government 
who saw fit to retain one regiment there. To 
be sure, the one regiment was sorely in need 
of padding; but what were numbers, when 
among the officers were the witty Major B, 
the handsome, dashing A. D. C, the kindly 
Colonel, and the appealing, child-like sub- 
alterns ? 

To Prospect Park, then, we went of a 
Sunday, to hear the band. The truly pious 
went to the church services, and watched the 
red-coated soldiers come in and take their 
places in the uncomfortable little chairs, 
ranged in serried ranks in the barracks' 
church. This was a long, narrow house, built 



The Return 59 



of wood and covered with corrugated iron, 
which gave it a peculiarly unchurchly aspect, 
and seemed to hint at a necessity for fire- 
proof arrangements. But the Chaplain was a 
kindly man who refrained from speaking of 
the wrath to come, and confined himself to 
brave, encouraging words to these lads, so far 
from home. 

We arrived a little early for the band con- 
cert and entirely too late for the services. 
But we drove up to the church to watch the 
soldiers march out. We heard the last re- 
sponses in strong, virile tones, then a hymn, 
then a rustling of feet; and then the scarlet 
audience streamed out from both doors of the 
furnace-like building. Mr. Clemens murmured 
something about " flames of fire and the wrath 
to come." However, the bright colors soon 
melted away and scattered, to reassemble on 
the greensward of the park. Presently the 
band gathered under a clump of cedars, and 
the lovely strains sounded sweeter because, 
while listening, we could at the same time see 
the wonderful color of the sky and feel the 
balmy air upon our cheeks. 



60 Mark Twain 

The only discomfort in being with Mr. 
Clemens and Mr. Rogers in a public place 
was that glances and cameras were always 
turned upon them. But they accepted this 
attention with indifference, and why should 
we be bothered? Mr. Clemens was not a 
passionate lover of music, but he was fond 
of a band or of an organ. On this particular 
day he was distracted from a fair attention to 
the program by the awkward antics of a lank 
puppy and a fat baby. The fat baby was 
evidently the direct lineal descendant of the 
bass-drummer, for the child lunged from time 
to time in his direction, laying violent but 
unsteady hold on the paternal legs. Indeed, 
all those straight, firm legs of the standing 
band had a wonderful attraction for the Fat 
Baby, and when the puppy's charms palled 
she would stand by her unhappy father a 
while, looking contemplatively at the forest 
of legs before her; then she would reel, and 
totter, and disappear among the avenues of 
legs, to be hauled out ignominiously when the 
number was over. All this Mr. Clemens ob- 




Glances and cameras were always 
turned upon them 



The Return 61 



served with quiet delight, making an appro- 
riate observation from time to time. 

The puppy failed to interest him so much, 
for he had no love for dogs, and sometimes 
said that he wished he could exterminate 
them all. 

Mr. Clemens directed our attention to 
some other children who were playing, and 
remarked : " They look like intoxicated June- 
bugs careening over the lawn." 

Two small boys strutted past, looking very 
important and pompous and British. We 
heard one say to the other: "How long are 
you going to stay? My mother told me I 
could stay until ' God saves the King.' " 

We, too, decided to stay until that interest- 
ing moment, and when it came we rose, a little 
stiffly, from the rug on which we had been 
reposing, and joined in the national anthem 
with fraternal regard. As Mr. Clemens bared 
his white head, he looked, indeed, a kingly 
figure clothed in white against the scarlet 
background of the band. 



15attle0f)ip0 attD Soctetp 



CHAPTER VII 

BATTLESHIPS AND SOCIETY 

ONE day three English cruisers came into 
the harbor. The next evening Mr. 
Clemens received a charming letter 
from the Chaplain of one of them, a letter 
which pleased him much because of its quaint 
phrasing. Here it is, in part : 

Dear Doctor Clemens: I understand we are 
cousins and in a closer sense than that you 
are American and I English. Your dear mother 
is sister to my (to me) dearer mother! 

I am jealous that my Alma Mater was fore- 
stalled by Oxford in adopting you. 

I regret, also, that the exigencies of the 
service prevented my being in Oxford — in 
fact, England — to assist those who desired to 
do you honor. Think you that we might square 
yards in some way? May I suggest a way? 
What if you did us the honour to lunch on board 
the battleship on Monday or Tuesday? Does 
that appeal to your sense of humour? If not, 
will you let it touch that whole-hearted gen- 
erosity of yours, and come? 

65 



66 Mark Twain 



We won't ask you to say anything funny, 
but will, if you will honour us, show you as 
much of the ship as you might wish to see, and 
do our best not to bore you too much. 

I have a confession to make — my conscience 

compels me. Here it is — Fleet-Surgeon F 

and I made a pilgrimage yesterday to your 
present shrine to do you homage. We had one 
golden opportunity, when you were smoking 
your after breakfast cigar on the terrace of 
the hotel, but being the shyest of a shy race, 
or let me say, the kindest of our kind, we 
refrained from taking advantage of your only 
moment of isolation to attack you and achieve 
the object of our visit. 

The letter went on to name days and hours 
when Mr. Clemens might favor them, and 
wound up with : 

I must apologize for the length of this invi- 
tation. My excuse is, that it is not so much 
an invitation as a humble petition from two 

Grateful Admirers-in-Chiep. 

Of course Mr. Clemens went, and had a 
beautiful time, and made a speech that made 
them rock with laughter and then furtively 
wipe away tears. The Chaplain told us about 
it afterwards. That is the way we knew. And 
Mr. Clemens also told the Chaplain about his 




The Chaplain's cousin 



Battleships and Society 67 

friends, so that a boat was sent for us and we 
had afternoon tea on board. The Chaplain 
had a hospitable soul, as well as a graceful 
pen and the happy gift of speech, so that he 
made a royal good host. We saw the six hun- 
dred men of the battleship stand up in straight 
military lines on the forward deck and answer 
to roll-call. Then the shore-leave men 
scrambled down into their boats, held up their 
oars in perfect vertical lines, dropped them at 
the word of command, and rowed off cheerily, 
to have a respectable British orgy in the staid 
town of the island. 

Then we, in our turn, scrambled down to 
our boat, the crew gave a cheer for Mr. 
Clemens, and as the launch moved away we 
waved lingering farewells to the old grey 
cruiser. 

Almost all social functions, and there were 
many on the little island, Mr. Clemens escaped. 
Once in a while he was persuaded to go to an 
afternoon tea. These were very popular. On 
these occasions innumerable kinds of rich cake 
were served, in such reckless profusion and 
with such pressing hospitality that dinner was 



68 Mark Twain 

completely wrecked. But when we were all in- 
vited to a West-Indian Pepper-Pot luncheon, 
we eagerly accepted. Our hostess was not a 
born islander, but as fourteen or fifteen win- 
ters had sheltered her on the Happy Isles, she 
was an adopted daughter. Besides, she knew 
how Pepper-Pot was made, and this, added to 
other charms, made her quite irresistible. She 
laughingly told us that Pepper-Pot was best 
on Sunday, for it was a heathen dish. Its 
origin was clothed in mystery. 

It takes three or four days to cook Pepper- 
Pot, but when it is done it is a worthy crea- 
tion. Dark, rich, heterogeneous, with an 
unanalysable flavor, it possesses an apparently 
mild flavor until you have half finished your 
dishful. Then it begins to burn insidiously, 
first your tongue, then your palate, then your 
throat, until you feel gently aflame. It is not 
a wholly unpleasant sensation, and we all ate 
bravely. 

Mr. Clemens remarked, when the silence of 
discovery had first fallen upon us, "This 
would be a very good dish if it had a little 







Maude's expression was hard to catch 



Battleships and Society 69 

pepper in it." We all smiled humidly, and 
furtively wiped our eyes. 

After luncheon some curious neighbors 
came in to call, and among them was one 
who did not win the affection of any of us, 
nor of Mr. Clemens, whom she particularly 
wished to impress. We had an opportunity 
then of seeing Mr. Clemens's tactics. He had 
a wonderful way of suddenly disappearing, of 
slipping into space, of melting into a misty 
background, when he wished to escape a per- 
son who bored him, that was the perfection of 
art. Sometimes, when circumstances prevented 
this disappearance of his physical self, he 
nevertheless absented himself mentally, so that 
the undesired one felt, all at once, that he 
was talking to the unanswering air. Withal 
Mr. Clemens always remained courteous and 
dignified, and never for an instant conveyed 
the thought of rudeness. Indeed, we never saw 
him angry or impatient except when he could 
not find a match-box in his pocket, or when 
his waitress failed to bring him his bacon 
grilled as he liked it. Even then he was simply 



70 Mark Twain 

whimsical in his wrath. The great disturbances 
usually found him calm and philosophical. 

Mr. Clemens cared nothing for the excur- 
sions, that were sometimes proposed, to visit 
some object of interest. He used to say chat 
he had probably seen the oldest house in the 
world, the longest street, the biggest city, the 
most wonderful cathedral, the highest moun- 
tain — so why should he bother himself now, 
in his old age, to see second-rate curiosities? 
So he showed no interest in crystal caves, nor 
natural bridges, nor coral gardens, but he 
loved to sit on the veranda and drink in the 
changing beauty of sky and sea, or to take 
long drives under cedar arches or over palm- 
shaded roads that ended suddenly in the surf. 

He never played golf, that we knew of, but 
he was exceedingly fond of billiards. It was a 
pretty sight to see him teaching his little girl 
friends to play, and encouraging them by 
letting them beat him. 

In the evening we often used to play cards 
in his room. The only game we ever played 
was Hearts. Mr. Clemens usually prefaced 
the game by saying to Mr. Rogers, in a tone 




They assumed a hic/Ji moral attitude 



Battleships and Society 71 

of kindly remonstrance : " Now, I sincerely 
hope you are not going to make any display 
of your disagreeable disposition tonight. Do 
try to show us some pleasant sides of your 
character." 

Mr. Rogers, with a perfectly serious face, 
replied in the same vein, and this was kept up 
throughout the evening, so skillfully that the 
other two never grew weary. On the contrary, 
we were convulsed with silent mirth. 

They, Mr. Clemens and Mr. Rogers, each 
had a theory that the other would be a hope- 
less outcast were it not for his regenerating 
influence. They assumed a high moral and 
didactic manner when they reasoned with one 
another. 

Sometimes, however, there was a sweet 
gravity in their intercourse, and that was at 
such moments as when Mr. Clemens read Mc- 
Andrews' prayer and Mr. Rogers listened, 
with a moisture in his eyes, to the beautiful 
pathos of his friend's voice. 



9@arfe Ctoain'0 aquarium 



CHAPTER VIII 

MARK TWAIN'S AQUARIUM 

ON one of the three hundred and sixty- 
five islets that group about the Happy 
Isle was an aquarium. As it used to 
be a store-house for powder and other food 
for guns and cannon, it was all the more pic- 
turesque as a house for fish. 

Mr. Clemens beguiled into going there 
one day by the genial and obliging Consul, 
took Mr. Rogers and the rest of us with 
him. It was a beautiful Sunday morning, and 
the sun brought out all sorts of unexpected 
lights on the water. The fish in the aquarium 
were very wonderful in their coloring and 
form, but Mr. Clemens didn't seem to think 
that they were very sociable. And it wasn't 
pleasant to see the octopus dine off a retiring 
and harmless crab, nor to see the keeper 
stuffing live eels down the lazy moreau's throat. 
There were four-eyed fish and squirrel-fish 
and parrot-fish, and I don't know how many 

75 



76 Mark Twain 



other kinds of streaked and barred and polka- 
dotted curiosities. But the kind that Mr. 
Clemens picked out as his favorite was the 
Angel-fish. They were plump, and had fins 
like wings, and were gorgeous in their color- 
ing and had pretty little pursed-up mouths 
that suggested maidenly modesty. Their 
wings suggested spirituality, and their color- 
ing femininity. These traits appealed espe- 
cially to Mr. Clemens, and, not long after, 
Mr. Clemens's aquarium was established. In 
this aquarium there were to be none but 
Angel-fish admitted. To be an Angel-fish one 
must be a girl, and one must be young, and 
one must have won Mr. Clemens's heart. This 
latter was not hard to do, for he always made 
the overtures when he first met, or saw, any 
promising candidate. Margaret was, I think, 
morally speaking, the first real Angel-fish, but 
Irene was the first one to be so-called. She 
was Margaret's direct successor in the donkey- 
cart, and many a lovely morning she and Mr. 
Clemens and Maude ambled off to Spanish 
Point, while the faithful followed or preceded, 
according to Maude's gait. 




His light weight could not discourage her 



Mark Twain's Aquarium 77 

One morning, when we were returning after 
a happy jaunt, Mr. Rogers began to berate 
Mr. Clemens for riding longer than was his 
turn. Mr. Clemens defended himself by say- 
ing that it was purely out of consideration 
for Maude, as his light weight could not 
discourage her, whereas Mr. Rogers's heavy 
form would be a burden too great for her. 
The result of the discussion was that Mr. 
Rogers and I got into the cart, while Mr. 
Clemens, the Angel-fish, and the others walked 
behind. Despite our efforts, Maude could not 
be made to see the advantage of going rap- 
idly, and when we came to the hill in front of 
the hotel she stopped completely and went 
down on her knees — her final argument. I 
tender-heartedly suggested getting out and 
helping Maude up the incline. But Mr. 
Rogers had a happier plan, which was to 
make Mr. Clemens push the cart up the hill. 
Mr. Clemens demurred at first, but submitted 
with good grace, and Maude, encouraged by 
the sympathetic friend in the rear, pricked up 
her long, sad ears, and we dashed up to the 



78 Mark Twain 

front entrance in fine style, with the Angel- 
fish following fast behind. 

Others were later made members of the 
King's aquarium, and to each one was given 
a pretty enameled pin in the shape of an 
Angel-fish, which she was to wear as often as 
possible. 

When Mr. Clemens could not have one of 
his Angel-fish with him, then the next best 
thing was to talk about them. 

One evening he told us of far-away Dorothy. 
He had said to her one time : " Dear — [to 
hear Mr. Clemens say "dear" to one of his 
little girl friends was a revelation of the 
wealth of affection in that one syllable] — I 
love you so that I think I really will have to 
eat you up ! " And Dorothy responded, quick 
as a flash: "Oh, don't! Mr. Clemens; you 
would miss me so!" How Mr. Clemens 
chuckled over this ! And he told another story 
of this same Dorothy. They were at break- 
fast and Dorothy was eating her egg. Mr. 
Clemens began by saying : " Is n't this egg a 
wonderful thing, so curiously made, so marvel- 
ously constructed! I wonder how it all came 




The Angel-fish came into our circle 



Mark Twain s Aquarium 79 

about!" And Dorothy responded, practi- 
cally: "Why, they're just made to keep the 
hens busy." 

There were two or three Dorothys among 
the Angel -fish, and it was hard for Mr. 
Clemens to tell which he loved best. 

One of Mr. Clemens's household wrote me 
later an incident of one of the other Doro- 
thys which had filled Mr. Clemens's soul 
with joy. This Dorothy was at his house in 
New York one day. She was twelve years 
old and shone as an authoress. Sitting by 
the King's side, she wrote a story, handing 
him each sheet as it was finished. It was 
something as follows: "A man was seated 
in a chair by the fireside, brooding over his 
troubles. He was sad because his wife was 
dead. Suddenly a spectre appeared before 
him, and it was his wife. She said : t Dear, I 
could not bear to see you so sad and dis- 
contented, so I have come to comfort you. 
You must not be sad. You must be bright 
and happy. It was best that I should leave 
you when I did, because I was going to get a 
divorce.' Then she disappeared. The man 






80 Mark Twain 

sat for a while longer, and then said to him- 
self: 'Yes, it is best to be contented.'" 
Dorothy asked for the last sheet again after 
she had handed it to the King, saying she did 
not quite like the ending. The King gravely 
returned it to her, and she added "with what 
is ordained," and reread the sentence with 
satisfaction : " Yes, it is best to be contented 
with what is ordained." 

This was the kind of society that Mr. 
Clemens loved best those last days of his life. 

There was a boyishness about Mr. Clemens 
sometimes that found different modes of ex- 
pression. Once, when the long corridor of 
the second floor of the hotel presented a 
temptingly empty avenue, he hopped, skipped, 
and ran, and then gave a delicious suggestion 
of a cake-walk. As soon as a door opened, 
however, he stopped and assumed a super- 
naturally grave aspect. 

Another time — it was of a Sunday eve- 
ning — I heard a mysteriously gentle knock 
at my door, and, opening it, saw Mr. Clemens. 
He put his finger to his lips and said "Hush ! " 
For the Lady Mother's room adjoined. Then, 







69 






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Mark Twain s Aquarium 81 

beckoning me out into the hall, he whispered, 
"Can't you run away and have a game of 
cards ? " To my reply of " I 'm afraid mother 
won't let me; it's Sunday evening," he re- 
joined, "Play hookey; she'll never know." 
So, closing the door, we escaped down the 
hall, with a well-simulated thrill of adventure, 
while the dear Lady Mother remained sweetly 
unconscious of the perfidy. 



2PDD0 anD (8nD0 






M 



CHAPTER IX 

ODDS AND ENDS 

R. CLEMENS was delighted when one 
day he found an English edition of 
his book, A Stolen White Elephant, 
and Other Stories, It was bound in brilliant 
scarlet, with the picture of a white elephant 
on the cover. Some of the sketches contained 
in this volume he had not seen for years. The 
chapter entitled Notes of an Idle Excursion 
was particularly to the point, for the excur- 
sion described was to this same Happy Island, 
and had been written thirty or more years 
before. He read it aloud to us one evening, 
and we marveled at the freshness of descrip- 
tion. Either the island had remained the 
same or the magic power of the writer made 
it ageless. Mr. Clemens had a quaint way of 
pronouncing the island's name that seemed to 
hark back to the days of Shakespeare and 
"vexed Bermoothes isle." He always said 
" Bermooda," and the name seemed to fit. 

85 



86 Mark Twain 

In this same collection of stories is re- 
counted the incident illustrating the base 
ingratitude of the young aspirant to literary 
fame, who is helped by an author and who 
later on attacks his benefactor. The story 
points the agreeable moral that it doesn't 
pay to render that sort of help. If this was 
a theory of Mr. Clemens, it certainly was not 
his practice. One day at the hotel Mr. 
Clemens discovered that a would-be author 
earnestly desired to have his opinion of a 
manuscript, but was too timid to ask him to 
read it. He forthwith asked the author to 
read him some of his work. We were on the 
veranda, and we watched Mr. Clemens as he 
listened. The reading interested him and he 
sat with his head bent, leaning forward in his 
chair, his eyes hidden by the bushy eyebrows. 
How deeply interested, we could not tell, and 
we waited rather breathlessly when the anx- 
ious author's voice ceased. The King looked 
up and there was moisture in his eyes. He 
said slowly: "I was just wondering what 
publisher would be worthy of publishing such 
a beautiful piece of work." The startled joy 



Odds and Ends 87 

on the author's face was almost funny. We 
happened to know that Mr. Clemens's interest 
did not end there, and that he made certain 
practical suggestions which were most helpful. 

Mr. Clemens's generous spirit was shown in 
another way when the Children's Hospital 
Benefit was given. The management asked 
him if he would occupy the principal place on 
the program and make a speech, or tell sto- 
ries, or, in fact, do anything he pleased. 
Mr. Clemens readily consented. He was the 
drawing-card, of course, and when the evening 
came the hotel parlors were packed to suffo- 
cation. 

There is no need to describe Mr. Clemens 
as a public speaker, but on this evening some- 
thing happened which, Mr. Rogers said, had 
never, to his knowledge, occurred before. Mr. 
Clemens was telling his well-known story of 
the first time he met General Miles in Wash- 
ington, and of his successful and successive 
efforts to sell the dog. Everyone who has 
heard Mr. Clemens tell his stories will remem- 
ber that he never, never laughed while relating 
them, no matter how excruciatingly absurd 



88 Mark Twain 

the story was. His unbroken gravity always 
added immensely to the effect on his audience. 
This time, however, when he reached the cli- 
max of the story, he suddenly broke down and 
laughed, laughed so hard that for a minute 
he could not go on. And the audience shook 
with mirth because of the unexpectedness of it. 
One day we decided to have an all-day 
picnic and drive out to the far end of the 
island and take lunch in a quaint inn whose 
glories we had heard sung. Our party filled 
three or four carriages, and we had a long and 
very merry ride. But alas for our expecta- 
tions! When we arrived we found the once- 
picturesque hostelry newly refurnished. The 
proprietor had evidently inherited some of the 
worst tendencies of the early Victorian period 
of interior decoration, and the rooms were a 
riot of color, varnish, and silk tidies. After 
we had been greeted, and our orders had been 
given, and we were trying to assimilate the 
local coloring of the parlor, Mr. Clemens 
gravely and sadly remarked : " It looks more 
like a wrecked kaleidoscope than anything 
I've seen for a long time!" This faculty of 



Odds and Ends 89 

Mr. Clemens for finding unexpected but per- 
fectly fitting similes and adjectives was a 
never-ending joy to the rest of us. 

Mr. Clemens had no great talent for 
drawing, and though he could make word 
pictures, his pencil pictures were difficult to 
recognize. One afternoon he suggested that 
we embroider some tapestry, for which he 
would make the designs. For my pattern he 
chose as the central figure the head of Maude. 
Beneath was to be a fish, also emblematic of 
the island, and in the upper left-hand corner 
was to be worked the legend, " Ste. Maude." 
With a blue pencil he tried to make a 
donkey's head. The first attempt looked too 
much like a cat, the second like a cow, but 
finally the third satisfied him. The fish was 
easier to make, because less intelligent-looking, 
Mr. Clemens said. It was Maude's expression 
that was so hard to catch. 

The design was transferred by him to the 
canvas and was outlined in properly colored 
silks. But it lies unfinished, a mute reminder 
of the happy afternoon when we laughed like 
children over the series of tapestried figures 



90 Mark Twain 

we were going to make to hand down to 
posterity. 

One evening Mr. Clemens was led to talk of 
his life on the Mississippi. His cigars were 
good, and we were sitting in a quiet corner of 
the big reading-room, and he had an appre- 
ciative audience, so that he fell into a sort of 
inspired monologue. I remember, but cannot 
transcribe, alas ! the marvelous descriptions he 
gave of the mighty river. He seemed to 
be carried back to his youthful days and to 
see again the rushing current, the changing 
shores, the glowing sunsets. The descriptions 
of this evening seemed to me more vivid, more 
evoking, than the written ones of On the 
Mississippi. And they are masterpieces. But 
the added charm lay, doubtless, in the pic- 
turesqueness of the narrator, who sat as in a 
vision, his white head and strong features 
enveloped in a cloud of smoke, out of which 
his voice came to us vibrating with reminiscent 
feeling. 



Cfte &nt0 anO fttpling 



CHAPTER X 

THE KING AND KIPLING 

EVENINGS at a hotel, even a hotel on the 
Happy Island, are, at best, garish. 
There are verandas, where a swaying 
multitude rock back and forth in huge wicker 
rocking-chairs ; parlors, where old ladies play 
bridge; and smoking-rooms, where the men, 
pleasantly wearied from golf, somnolently 
pull at their cigars; and a ball-room, where 
expectant young girls listen to the music of a 
discouraged band. 

But our evenings were different, for we fled 
from all these allurements, and gathered in 
Mr. Clemens's room, where we spent most 
delectable hours. 

Mr. Clemens had a wonderful gift for 
reading. The author of The Prince and the 
Pauper, Huckleberry Finn, and Tom Sawyer 
could not fail to be dramatic. And this dra- 
matic sense he knew well how to express in 

93 



94 Mark Twain 

his reading. He read slowly, with eloquent 
pauses, and he threw himself into the senti- 
ment he was interpreting with intense aban- 
donment, and yet with a reserve that was 
consummate art. One evening he read to us 
some articles by Helen Keller, that were then 
appearing in Harper's Magazine. Every now 
and then he would interrupt himself to com- 
ment on some phase of Miss Keller's personal- 
ity, or recount some incident of his acquaint- 
ance with her. Mr. Rogers, too, knew her 
well, and they both agreed that Miss Keller 
had proved it was quite unnecessary for us to 
have so many senses. Another evening he 
read to us from his own unpublished manu- 
script — stories of his little girl friends, 
charming sketches of Dorothy and Margaret 
and Irene, of his first meetings with them, and 
of their quaint sayings. 

But I think that the evenings we enjoyed 
most were those when he read Kipling. He 
said once : " I 'm not fond of all poetry, but 
there's something in Kipling that appeals to 
me. I guess he's just about my level." 

He loved the swing of Kipling's verse and 




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The King and Kipling 95 

the brawn and muscle of his thought. On 
those Kipling evenings, the mise-en-scene was 
a striking one. There was the bare hotel 
room, with its pine woodwork and pine furni- 
ture, and the loose windows, which rattled in 
the sea wind. Once in a while a gust of 
asthmatic music from the spiritless orchestra, 
down stairs, puffed up the hallway. Yellow, 
unprotected gas-lights burned uncertainly, 
and Mr. Clemens, in the midst of this, lay 
on his bed, still dressed in his white serge suit, 
with the light from the jet shining down on 
his silver hair, making it gleam and glisten 
like frost. 

In one hand he held his book ; in the other 
he had his pipe, which he used principally to 
gesticulate with in the most dramatic passages. 

Then we sat down near him, and Mr. 
Rogers lit his cigar, remarking kindly: 
"Now, Mr. Clemens, don't read too slowly. 
It seems to me that sometimes you drawl a 
little," to which Mr. Clemens replied, looking 
genially up at the ceiling: "It's most un- 
fortunate that Mr. Rogers speaks so indis- 
tinctly. I often lose what he says, entirely." 



96 Mark Twain 

And then Mr. Clemens began. When he 
read the Mary Gloster we could see the violent 
old man lying on his death-bed, undaunted by 
the thought of the end, pouring bitter curses 
on his worthless son's head, and at the same 
time thrilling with his sublimely poetic 
purpose. The tender beauty of Mr. Clemens's 
voice when the old man spoke of his one dear 
love, made the feminine members of the audi- 
ence weep openly, while Mr. Rogers sat up 
sternly, blinked hard, and pulled fiercely at his 
cigar. When Mr. Clemens read Mc Andrews' 
Hymn his voice rang out in triumph and his 
pipe waved rhythmically to the song of the 
steam. Soldier and Sailor Too swept us out 
to visions of the sea, and of men who died at 
their posts ; while we laughed delightedly with 
the swing of The Bolivar, and felt the note of 
piercing homesickness in Mandalay and Me 
That Has Been What 1 9 ve Been. 

One evening the Lady Mother was able to 
be present, and Mr. Clemens chose Tomlinson 
for her delectation. 

It was an impressive sight — those two types, 
each so beautiful in ways so utterly different: 



The King and Kipling 97 

Mr. Clemens, who had seen the world in all its 
phases, of sin and pleasure, of joy and sor- 
row, and who had come out of it with a nature 
still sweet, a philosophy half -whimsical, half- 
profound, and a heart where youthful gaiety 
still had a place; and opposite him the Lady 
Mother, with her pose of a duchess, the young 
look in her eyes, and her finely chiseled face, 
flushed with a happy look of expectancy. 
Both had lived the same number of years, she 
so protected from, he so exposed to, their 
storms. And he chose Tomlinson. I shall not 
say that she enjoyed it. Some of the expres- 
sions had not that refinement that she loved, 
but if she did not wholly approve Kipling, 
she gave full meed of praise to the King. 
Him she never criticized. 

Mr. Clemens gave to several of his friends 
who had at different times enjoyed Kipling 
with him a copy of the writer's collected 
verses, marking his favorite poems with heavy 
lines. 

From one friend to whom he sent such a 
copy came back, in acknowledgment, the 
following verses : 



98 Mark Twain 

When the King Reads Kipling 

I 

When the King reads Kipling 

We grow silent and are still. 

And our hearts begin to thrill, 

For we know we shall be carried to far lands 

across the seas. 
We shall tramp through tropic forests, we shall 

rest 'neath banyan trees, 
Where we hear the lazy r\ itling of palmettos in 

the breeze. 
We shall feel like happy children, for we haven't 

any choice 
When we hear the East a-calling with its 
yearning languorous voice, 

When the King reads Kipling. 

II 

When the King reads Kipling, 
We are spell-bound, by the ring 
Of the ballads, as they sing 
Of the ocean's awful power and its deep 

deceitful wiles: 
Of the desert's naked grandeur, where the green 

oasis smiles: 
Of the splendor of horizons glowing blood-red, 

miles on miles: 
And our souls are stirred within us and we feel 

a glad unrest 
For we are sailing outward, to the Islands of 
the Blest 

When the King reads Kipling. 



The King and Kipling 99 



III 

When the King reads Kipling, 
There's a hush falls on the room 
In the twilight's deepening gloom. 
And our hearts are strangely lifted to some 

distant purple height, 
Where we catch a glorious vision of the soul's 

heroic might; 
Where we hear the cries of anguish, that come 

sobbing through the night. 
And we feel the tragic shadow, that makes great 

joys complete, 
For we are borne up to the mountains where 
two great poets meet, 

When the King reads Kipling. 

Mr. Clemens was deeply touched and wrote 
the following answer: 

You have overwhelmed me, dear . That 

poem does not seem like words — a march of 
words with interrupting spaces between — it 
flows like organ music, in blended strains, deep 
and rich and eloquent. And so moving! I 
can't read it aloud, my voice breaks. It is noble, 
stately, beautiful! I can never thank you with 
words, but I can with my heart; and I do. 

Affectionately, 

S. L. C 



100 



Mark Twain 



But time passes on a Happy Island as it 
does everywhere else, and the inevitable day 
came when we had to sail away, and wave a 
lingering good-bye to the kingly white figure 
on the shore, and sadly watch the green islands 
sink into the sea. 

We wondered if we should ever see him 
again, but we were certain that, whether we 
ever did or not, his image could never fade 
from our hearts. We should always hear that 
dear, drawling, resonant voice. We should 
forever keep in our memory that marvelous 
personality. 






^totmfielD 



CHAPTER XI 

STORMFIELD 

A KING, whether he be one by the acci- 
dental right of inheritance or by the 
noble right of inborn royalty, has the 
privilege of calling his vassals to him at his 
will. So when a summons came, the Thanks- 
giving following the winter on the Happy 
Island, for me to go to Mr. Clemens's home 
in the Connecticut hills, I never thought of 
hesitating. 

It was Thanksgiving afternoon when I 
reached the little station. It was a glorious 
sunny winter day, with a gray frost still on 
the hills, little icicles on the edge of the 
streams, and a tang in the air that gave to 
hearts and cheeks a cheerier glow. 

We drove rapidly over the country roads, 
and I noticed at each turning that there was 
a neat and very diminutive sign-board, point- 
ing always in the direction we followed, and 
bearing the initials M. T. 

103 



104 Mark Twain 

Many minutes before we reached it we 
could see the peaceful white Italian villa, 
from whose many windows we knew we could 
look for miles over the country. The grounds 
were unspoiled by the hand of the landscape- 
gardener, and bushes grew everywhere, while 
the graveled road, that led up to the entrance, 
was not yet hardened by excessive travel. We 
drove up to the door. It opened, and there 
stood Mr. Clemens. It might have been yester- 
day that I had seen him last, for he had not 
changed. His suit was as white and immacu- 
late as ever, his hair as silvery. There was 
only one change. He had tied a bow of pink 
ribbon to the top locks of his head, in honor 
of the guest. He extended both hands in 
cordial greeting, and I knew then that the 
Happy Island had not been a dream. The 
bow of pink ribbon was gently referred to, 
with proper acknowledgment of its hospitable 
significance. Mr. Clemens received the thanks 
gravely, and then the ornament placed there 
whimsically was apparently forgotten, but 
remained coquettishly pert all the rest of the 
evening. 




*} 

^ 






Storm field 105 

Even before I went to my room I must 
look over the house. So we went from living- 
room to loggia and back again to the dining- 
room, and then down to the pergola, back 
again to the house and into the billiard-room, 
then upstairs to catch a glimpse of the view 
from Mr. Clemens' room before the twilight 
should close in upon it. Then Clara Clem- 
ens's charming suite of rooms must be visited, 
then the other bed-rooms, and the guest- 
rooms. We must have a peep also into the 
servants' quarters, but finally, we stopped, 
before reaching the attic, which was reserved 
to another time. 

The house was designed by the son of his 
life-long friend, Mr. W. D. Howells, a fact 
which gave Mr. Clemens great satisfaction. 
It was singularly in keeping with the dark, 
straight cedars which nature had f oreseeingly 
disposed in decorative lines and groups. In- 
side there was spaciousness, light, perfect 
comfort, and simplicity: while outside there 
was all the beauty of a New England land- 
scape at its best, with nothing abrupt or harsh 
in the undulating curves of its hills and val- 



106 Mark Twain 

leys ; with something maternal in its soft, full 
outlines — where it would seem a sweet and 
restful thing to lay one's tired body down and 
let this mother Earth soothe and enfold you. 

Mr. Clemens told me, almost with glee, that 
he had never seen either house or land until 
one day, the preceding June, when he came 
and took possession of a fully furnished and 
settled kingdom. All the instructions he had 
given were, that his room should be a quiet 
one, that the billiard-room should be big 
enough so that when he played he would not 
have to jab his cue into the wall, and that 
there should be a living-room at least forty 
by twenty feet. He was perfectly satisfied 
with the result, and wandered delightedly 
from room to room as he pointed out this and 
that particular charm. 

As twilight fell, we gathered about the big 
fireplace in the living-room. Mr. Clemens 
asked me if I noticed anything very peculiar 
about the room. I vainly tried to perceive 
some eccentricity, but could not, for everything 
was in perfect harmony. " Have n't you no- 
ticed," said he, " that there is n't a picture on 



Stormfield 107 

the walls?" I had to confess that I hadn't. 
We sat and talked of our friends of the 
Happy Island — of the Rajah, and of Mar- 
garet and the other Angel-fish, until it was 
time to go and dress for dinner. 

This was a function where conversation was 
as important as food. Mr. Clemens grew rest- 
less before many courses had been served, and 
rose, to walk up and down the dining-room, 
discoursing the while on some favorite topic. 
This he often did at meals. For he was not a 
hearty eater, except spasmodically, and so he 
would often suddenly rise, still talking, and 
continue his tirade while pacing the floor. 
Then, if another course tempted him, he 
would come back and partake of it. 

There was a big organ at one end of the 
living-room, with a self-playing attachment, 
and after dinner we had some music. One of 
the guests played while we sat in the fire- 
light, and Mr. Clemens in his big armchair 
smoked and was perfectly happy. 

Mr. Clemens spent half of each morning in 
bed, and sometimes he did not appear until 
lunch-time; but the morning after Thanks- 



108 Mark Twain 

giving he was downstairs at ten, and proposed 
that we take a walk over the hills, his hills. 

It was a gloriously bright, crisp, cold day, 
and the atmosphere was so limpid that we 
could see far away. Mr. Clemens put on a 
fur-lined great-coat and his gray cap, saw 
that there was a goodly supply of cigars in 
his pockets, and we started off down the walk, 
through the pergola, and picked our way to 
a winding path that led us to all sorts of 
charming places. 

Just as we were starting from the house, 
Mr. Clemens had stopped me and had said: 
" I want you to look at this view." I looked 
at the slope below, that dipped down into a 
pretty valley, and then at the gentle hills 
beyond, where winter had forced the trees to 
drop their sheltering screens, so that un- 
expected houses and isolated farms were here 
and there revealed. Mr. Clemens asked, " Do 
you see that white building over there?" 
pointing, at the same time, to what was unmis- 
takably a country church. He went on: 
"We've just discovered that it is a church. 
It 's the nearest one. Just at a safe distance 



Stormfield 109 

All summer we thought that it was a wind- 
mill." 

That morning walk in the white November 
sunlight will always remain a vivid memory. 

We scrambled down the hillside and came to 
the stream, which Mr. Clemens pointed out 
to me with the proud gesture of a discoverer. 
It was just what a New England stream should 
be, winding and clear, flowing at times turbu- 
lently over obstructing stones, and then paus- 
ing to form a still, golden-brown pool. We 
followed its windings with happy delight, 
finding new beauties to show to each other 
and to exclaim over. Mr. Clemens told me 
Indian stories and legends he had heard in his 
boyhood days. 

We came to a tiny cave, at the side of the 
road, where there were some baby stalactites, 
and Mr. Clemens stopped there to discourse 
on the wonders of geology. He told me he 
had lately been investigating the subject of 
the formation of the earth, and he had found 
it so wonderful that he wanted to know more 
about it. He had found some old treatises 
on geology which amused him greatly, but he 



110 Mark Twain 

wanted to get some more modern and scientific 
information. 

And so we wandered on, beguiled by the 
stream, which kept on murmuring seductively 
of charms farther on. 

We talked of the Angel-fish and their many 
attractions. Mr. Clemens told me of Mar- 
garet's last visit to Stormfield and of what 
good times they had had together. " She is a 
dear womanly child," said Mr. Clemens, " and 
we had one conversation together which con- 
vinced me more than ever of her sweet consid- 
eration for others. She was telling me how 
she intended to bring up her children, and 
what were her plans for their education. 
There were to be two, a boy and a girl. The 
girl was to be named after her mother. I 
asked her what the boy's name would be, and 
she replied, with a reproachful look in her 
brown eyes: 'Why, Mr. Clemens, I can't 
name him until I know what his father's name 
is.' Now, wasn't that truly thoughtful?" 

We finally had to leave the stream, for it 
was the lunch hour, so we made an abrupt 
turn and approached Stormfield by the oppo- 



Storm field 111 

site side from which we had left it. As we 
climbed the hill, Mr. Clemens paused a mo- 
ment to say : " I never want to leave this 
place. It satisfies me perfectly." 



©tormfielD, ©appilp Continued 



CHAPTER XII 

STORMFIELD, HAPPILY CONTINUED 

AT luncheon Mr. Clemens spoke of his 
lasting gratitude to Captain Stormfield. 
For it was to the success of his Heavenly 
Experiences that the building of the loggia 
was due. And that was the reason the peaceful 
house was thus christened. 

Our meal was somewhat hurried by the 
announcement, made by the deeply- interested 
butler, that the people were beginning to 
come. We were to have that afternoon the 
first entertainment of a series for the benefit 
of the Library Fund of the village. Mr. 
Clemens had offered to tell stories, and the 
entrance fee was to be twenty-five cents. 

Chairs had been hired from the local under- 
taker, and had been placed in close rows in 
the big living-room, in the loggia, and out 
in the hall. 

115 



116 Mark Twain 



The first who arrived had walked five miles. 
More came. They came in buggies and in 
other handy vehicles. They entered the house 
solemnly and took their places silently, re- 
fusing to make themselves comfortable, and 
held on grimly to fur overcoats and fleece- 
lined jackets. Soon the big living-room was 
filled to overflowing, and then Mr. Clemens 
stepped up to the improvised platform at one 
end of the long room and bade them welcome. 
As usual, he made a most picturesque appear- 
ance. On the wall behind him was a very 
large square, of carved, rich, old Italian oak, 
which filled the space between the two windows 
and formed an effective background for the 
white-haired, white-clad figure of the speaker. 

Mr. Clemens told story after story in his 
happiest vein — how he became an agricultur- 
ist, how he was lost in the dead of night in 
the black vastness of a German banqueting- 
hall. He was brilhant, wonderful. He seemed 
determined to bring a ripple into the faces of 
that silent audience. Once in a while stern 
features would relax for a moment, but the 




It was hard to tell which he loved best 



Storm field, Continued 117 

effort seemed to hurt, and the muscles would 
become fixed again. 

In the back of the room there sat some of 
the younger generation, who suffered from 
occasional apoplectic outbursts. And yet we 
knew that everyone there was enjoying it 
deeply, hugely, only, as Mr. Clemens said 
afterwards, "they weren't used to laughing 
on the outside." And they were proud, too, 
proud almost to sinning, of their illustrious 
fellow-townsman, and they would have shouted 
with laughter, if they only could. 

When Mr. Clemens had finished, after an 
entertainment of an hour and a half, there 
was no lack of applause. This they could 
give. The audience dispersed slowly, many 
of the number stopping to look, with open- 
mouthed but inarticulate admiration, at the 
beauties and luxuries of this home, so different 
from theirs. 

That evening Mr. Clemens rested himself 
by playing billiards. Before beginning, he 
showed me his collection of fish. Charmingly 
colored pictures of Angel -fish and other 



118 Mark Twain 



varieties were framed and hung low around 
the billiard-room. He told me that each real 
Angel-fish who came to visit him could choose 
one of those and call it her coat-of-arms. 

There were other very remarkable sketches 
and caricatures hung on the walls, but Mr. 
Clemens seemed most interested in the pisca- 
torial collection. 

It was sometimes a wonderful and fearsome 
thing to watch Mr. Clemens play billiards. 
He loved the game, and he loved to win, but 
he occasionally made a very bad stroke, and 
then the varied, picturesque, and unorthodox 
vocabulary, acquired in his more youthful 
years, was the only thing that gave him 
comfort. Gently, slowly, with no profane 
inflexions of voice, but irresistibly as though 
they had the head-waters of the Mississippi 
for their source, came this stream of unholy 
adjectives and choice expletives. I don't 
mean to imply that he indulged himself thus 
before promiscuous audiences. It was only 
when some member of the inner circle of his 
friends was present that he showed him this 
mark of confidence, for he meant it in the 



Storm field , Continued 119 

nature of a compliment. His mind was as 
far from giving offence as the mind of a 
child, and we felt none. We only felt a kind 
of awe. At no other time did I ever hear 
Mr. Clemens use any word which could be 
called profanity. But if we would penetrate 
into the billiard-room and watch him play, we 
must accept certain inevitable privileges of 
royalty. 

The next morning as I was going down- 
stairs, Mr. Clemens called to me from his 
room, in a tone that made me hurry. He was 
standing by one of the many windows, and he 
said: "Come quickly and look at the deep 
blue haze on those barberry bushes! They 
have never looked quite like this before." 
Then he went on to say: "When they built 
this house they had the inspiration to put in 
these small panes. See how each one frames 
a wonderful picture, and I can have a differ- 
ent one every time I change my position. No 
man-made pictures shall ever hang on my walls 
so long as I have these." 

And Mr. Clemens had no picture on his 
wall, except a portrait of his daughter Jean. 



120 Mark Twain 



That afternoon we took a long drive over 
the hills. Mr. Clemens kept no coachman and 
no carriage at that time, but when he wished 
a "rig" he sent word to the friendly farmer 
near by, who would soon appear with a surrey 
and a team of horses. 

I remember that much of the talk that 
afternoon turned on the strange manifesta- 
tions of genius and the tragic lives of many 
of those who were thus fatally endowed. 

When evening came that day we asked Mr. 
Clemens to read Kipling to us again, and thus 
revive some of the memories of the Happy 
Island. And so we sat around the big blazing 
fire, and again the King's voice swept us out 
to visions of mighty action. More favorites 
were added. The Three Decker was read with 
unction, and The Long Trail was read twice 
over before the audience was satisfied. We 
wished that Mr. Rogers were there, and, hap- 
pily, we did not feel the chill prophecy that 
some of us were never to see him again. 

An hour before luncheon, on Sunday, we 
gathered together in the living-room. Some- 
one proposed that Mr. Clemens read aloud to 



Stormfieldj Continued 121 

us from his book, What Is Man? Into this 
work Mr. Clemens had put some of his deepest 
convictions as to the meaning of life and the 
principles that guide the human soul. What- 
ever may be their philosophical value to others, 
he, at least, believed in them utterly, and when 
he read aloud to us the clear, trenchant dia- 
logue, we, too, were convinced, for a time, of 
their truth. He grew so earnest that he would 
often repeat a phrase, twice, in a deep, solemn 
voice, and he so utterly forgot his pipe that it 
went out completely. 

Our afternoon's peace was somewhat in- 
vaded by calls from the outside world and 
demands that Mr. Clemens should allow him- 
self to be photographed. I often wondered 
how many thousand times the camera must 
have turned its eye upon him. 

That last evening we played Hearts, for it 
still continued to be Mr. Clemens' favorite 
game. Again we missed Mr. Rogers sorely, 
and wished for his bantering. For no one 
else of us dared to chaff Mr. Clemens in quite 
the way that he had done. Besides, we knew 
that it would n't have been in the least humor- 



122 Mark Twain 

ous. We lengthened the hours as long as 
we could, for it was to be the last evening 
together, as the early morning train was to 
take me away. 

Since we knew how averse Mr. Clemens was 
to saying good-by to anyone, we parted that 
evening with a simple good-night. I did not 
expect to see him again, but the next morning 
as I went down to my hurried breakfast I 
heard his voice calling me. I went to his 
room. He was lying in his big carved bed, 
propped up by pillows. On the little table 
beside him were crowded together pipes, 
cigars, matches, a bottle or two, and a num- 
ber of books. He handed one of the books 
to me, and said, "You must have one of my 
souvenirs." It was a copy of Eve's Diary, 
with a kindly dedication in it on the fly-leaf. 
Then he said good-bye. 

The November sunshine had gone. The 
chill of winter had come into the air, and as I 
drove over the hills to the station I felt that 
I was going away from something very 
wonderful and very precious. For the love 
and friendship of those who have their faces 



Stormfield, Continued 123 

turned towards the sunset is sometimes as 
rare and sweet and unworldly as that of little 
children. Perhaps they both are nearer the 
infinite, and so can understand. 



Lettet0 



CHAPTER XIII 

LETTERS 

AFTER the happy visit at Stormfield we 
never saw Mr. Clemens again, but 
from time to time precious letters 
came from him, so characteristic that they 
vividly evoked his presence. He always wrote 
them in his own hand. 

The first one preserved is one that he wrote 
in answer to an incident of which I had writ- 
ten him an account. I had been lecturing to 
a class of students on Victor Hugo, and I 
had dwelt upon the enthusiastic appreciation 
of Frenchmen for their great men of letters. 
I had added, as I remember, that we had not 
yet attained that advanced stage of civil- 
ization where we could make heroes of our 
literary men, and, warming up to my subject, 
I said that were I to ask the class sitting 
then before me who was the most beloved 
American writer, I much doubted if they 

127 



128 Mark Twain 



could, spontaneously, name anyone. Seeing 
nods of dissent, I challenged them, and a 
dozen or more responded, "Mark Twain!" 
while the rest nodded approval. 
His answer is as follows : 

Stormfield, Redding, Connecticut, 

April 22/09. 
Dear Betsy: 

It is not convey able in words. I mean my 
vanity — rotten joy in the dear and pleasant 
things you say of me, and in my enviable stand- 
ing in your class, as revealed by the class's 
answer to your challenge. So I shall not try 
to do the conveying, but only say I am grateful 
— a truth which you would easily divine, even 
if I said nothing at all. 

You must come here again — please don't for- 
get it. We'll have another good time. 

Affectionately, 

S. L. Clemens. 

In May he wrote in reference to Mr. 
Rogers's sudden death: 

It is indeed, dear Betsy: a heavy stroke. It 
bruised many a heart: how many we shall never 
know, for his helpful kindnesses went far and 
wide and made no outward sign. Here we shall 
not look upon his like again ; hereafter — 

Affectionately, 

S. L. C. 



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Letters 129 

Another letter was concerning a paper 
which I had written about him, and which I 
did not wish to read in public without his 
sanction. He says : 

I am leaving home for five days and the 
article will arrive here after I am gone, but I 
can tell you now that I 'm not afraid to have you 
print anything you have written with me for 
subj ect — I don't need to see it first. I know 
all about it anyway, because Margaret's mother 
told me how charming it is. I saw her only a 
few days ago, when I went down to Irvington 
to see that dear little rascal play Puck in A 
Midsummer Night's Dream. She did it well 
and I was proud of her. * * * 

My present journey is to St. Timothy's 
School, where Francesca, another of my Fishes, 
will graduate next Thursday. 

And thanks for the Kipling verses! 

Affectionately, 

S. L. C. 

The envelope containing this letter had 
been broken, and across the end was written, 
"Broke it open myself. S. L. C." 

There was a postscript added: 

The mss. has arrived and I unseal my just- 
finished letter to say how grateful I am that you 
are able to say such beautiful things about me 



130 Mark Twain 



and to feel them. I thank you out of my heart. 
I can suggest a correction or two, of no 
importance : 

1. The Oxford degree is Litt.D. 

2. My recollection is that the life of Henri 
IV was attempted 1 8 times — once for each year 
of his reign — a pretty striking coincidence, you 
see! 

The next letter is without date. After 
speaking of some other matters, he says : 

To change the subject: will you come? Anc 

bring or send Mr. S ? For you and he are 

of the sort that can entertain themselves and be 
entertained by the household, counting me ou1 
mainly. I can't ask any other kind, for I wen 
to Baltimore early in June, and the fatigue anc 
the raw weather brought a return of what hap- 
pened in August last. So I can stand but little 
fatigue and am not down stairs much. I was 
warned to stop smoking, which I did, for two 
or three days, but it was too lonesome, and I 
have resumed — in a modified way — 4 smokes 
a day instead of 40. This will have a good 
effect. On the bank balance. 

I have delayed scandalously in the matter of 
returning the MSS., but I will have it mailed 
today or tomorrow sure. 

Affectionately, 

S. L. C. 



Letters 131 

I almost hesitate to quote from his next 
letter, and yet what he says is so character- 
istic of one side of him, the opposite of the 
gentle self-control and sweetness which he 
was so beautifully capable of exercising, that 
it seems only fair to give at least an extract. 

. . . There — I have enjoyed treating the 
subject with a pen, for I am full of malice, sat- 
urated with malignity. I feel nearer to the 
Lord than I ever was before. I feel as He feels 
of a Saturday night when the weekly report is 
in and He has had a satisfactory clean-up of 
the human race. 

I can't walk, I can't drive, I 'm not down- 
stairs much and I don't see company; but I 
drink barrels of water to keep the pain quiet; 
I read, and read, and read, and smoke, and 
smoke, and smoke all the time (as formerly), 
and it's a contented and comfortable life. 

I had sent him a copy of Thompson's 
beautiful appreciation of Shelley, to which he 
replied : 

Stormfield, Sept. 22/09. 
Dear Betsy: 

It is a lovely little book, and as rich in 
sumptuous imagery as is Shelley himself. The 
eading so moved and charmed me that I read 



13 2 Mar k Twain 

some Shelley under the inspiration of it. Thank 
vou ever so much for sending it. 

But the Angel-fishes are not "company. 
They are part of the family. They come, and 
dear me, how welcome they are! 

That little rascal [Margaret] will come I 
think, when she gets located at Greenwich - 
near-by — where her next school is. . . • 

We had a grand time here yesterday. Con- 
cert in aid of the little library. 

Team. 

Gabrilowitsch, pianist. 

David Bispham, vocalist. 

Clara Clemens, ditto. 

Mark Twain, Introducer of learn. 

Detachments', and squads, and gronps and 
singles came from every where — Danbury, N ew 
Haven, Norwalk, Redding, Redding Ridge, 
Eidgefield, and even from New York; some ^ 
60 motor cars, some in buggies and carnages, 
and a swarm of farmer-young-folk on foot from 
miles around: 525 altogether. 

If we hadn't stopped the sale of tickets a aay 

j 1 if Wore the performance we should 
and a half before tnepe . the 

have been swamped. We jammea i 

library (not quite all had seats) ; we n lea tne 

come, and it woke them up, and I tell you they 



Letters 133 



performed to the Queen's taste! The program 
was an hour and three-quarters long, and the 
encores added a half hour to it. The enthusiasm 
of the house was hair-lifting. They all stayed 
an hour after the close, to shake hands and 
congratulate. 

We had no dollar seats except in the library, 
but we accumulated $372 for the Building Fund. 
We had a tea at half past six for a dozen — 
the Hawthornes, Jeanette Gilder and her niece, 
etc.: and after 8 o'clock dinner we had a pri- 
vate concert and a ball in the bare-stripped 
library until 10: nobody present but the team, 
and Mr. and Mrs. Paine, and Jean and her dog. 
And me. Bispham did Danny Deever and the 
Erlkonig in his majestic great organ tones and 
artillery, and Gabrilowitsch played the accom- 
paniments as they were never played before, I 
do suppose. 

It having been decided that smoking was in 
no way responsible for my malady, I 'm smok- 
ing as much as ever now. 

Affectionately, 

S. L. C. 

A later letter tells of the wedding of his 
daughter Clara, in most happy vein. He was 
perfectly satisfied. He adds, towards the last : 

Jean abides with me, and runs a farm and 
keeps my accounts. . . . No, I have n't any 
7-page letters from Margaret — no letters at 






134 Mark Twain 



all, in fact. She and her mother were to visit 
me last week. My Bermuda Angel-fish has been 
here. She has grown considerably, but is as 
sweet and innocent and unspoiled as ever she 
was. 

I sent you Booth Tarkington's little Xmas 
book the other day. I hate Xmas stories, but 
this one is bright and felicitous, and has n't any 
religion in it, and I like it. 

I 've written a Xmas thing myself, for the 
Bazaar, but if it has any religion in it I did n't 
notice it. 

I had spoken in one of my letters about 
Anatole France's book, Vile des Pingouins, 
and had ordered a copy to be sent to him. 
In reply this letter came: 

Stormfield, Nov. 13/09. 
Dear Betsy: 

No, I have n't read it, but you make me want 
to read it — hungry to read it, in fact. I am all 
ready for it. Meantime I 've been writing 
" Letters from the Earth," and if you will come 
here and see us, I '11 read passages to you. This 
book will never be published. Paine likes it, 
but then, Paine is going to be damned anyhow. 

The autumn splendors passed you by? What 
a pity. I wish you had been here. It was 
beyond words! It was heaven and hell and 
sunset and rainbows and the aurora, all fused 
into one divine harmony, and you couldn't look 



Letters 135 



at it and keep the tears back. All the hosan- 
nahing and strong gorgeousnesses have gone 
back to heaven and hell and the pole now, but 
no matter: if you could look out at my bedroom 
window at this moment, you would choke up; 
and when you got your voice you would say this 
is not real, this is a dream. Such a singing 
together, and such a whispering together, and 
such a snuggling together of cosy soft colors, 
and such kissing and caressing, and such pretty 
blushing when the sun breaks out and catches 
those dainty weeds at it — you remember that 
weed-garden of mine? — and then — then the 
far hills sleeping in a dim blue trance — oh, 
hearing about it is nothing, you should be here 
to see it. 

Good ! I wish 7 could go on the platform and 
read. And I could, if it could be kept out of 
the papers. There's a charity-school of 400 
young girls in Boston that I would give my ears 
to talk to if I had some more ; but — oh, well, I 
can't go, and so it 's no use to grieve about it. 

This morning Jean went to town; also Paine; 
also the butler; also Katy; also the laundress. 
The cook and the maid, and the boy, and the 
roustabout and Jean's coachman, are left — just 
enough to make it lonesome, because they are 
around yet never visible. However, the Harpers 
are sending Leigh up to play billiards; there- 
fore, I shall survive. 

Affectionately, 

O. L. \Jm 



136 Mark Twain 

Soon after the date of this letter, Mr. 
Clemens went to Bermuda to make a short 
stay. A card came from him, postmarked 
December 17th, and bearing the following : 

Merry Christmas and affectionate greeting 
to Betsy. Maude has been close-clipped and 
looks elegant — even spiritual. 

S. L. C. 

His visit to Bermuda was brief, and he 
came back to Stormfield to spend the holidays 
with his daughter Jean. Then came the sad 
tragedy which robbed him of this daughter, 
and he was left alone, for his daughter Mrs. 
Gabrilowitsch had gone to live in Europe. 
On New Year's day he wrote : 

I can't write, for I am ill with a cold — the 
first one I have had in two years. The pain 
in my breast has come back — so I am leaving 
for Bermuda next Wednesday, for an indefinite 
stay. 

I enclose a sheet which I wrote to Clara to 

comfort her. I shall stay with the A s, if 

they 've got room for me. 

Always affectionately, 

S. L. C. 



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Letters 137 

The enclosed sheet to which he refers is 
touchingly sweet. There are two sentences 
which I may perhaps quote. In speaking of 
Jean's death he says: "I am so glad she is 
out of it and safe — safe ! " 

And, further on: "I am not melancholy; 
I shall never be melancholy again, I think." 

He is again in Bermuda, and, seemingly, 
much better. He writes : 

Bermuda, Jan. 26/10. 
Dear Betsy: 

No, revelation — of a valuable sort — does not 
come through sorrow when one is old. 
I am happy — few are so happy — but I get 
none of this happiness from knowing more of the 
unknowable than I knew before. Jan. 29 — 
noon. I intended to be lazy and dictate the rest 
of this, but my little secretary (Helen, Angel- 
fish) has escaped, and gone bicycling with a 
schoolmate. I am guest in her parents' house — 
indefinitely. I never feel a desire to visit 
Stormfield. ... I have Claude, best of 
butlers, valets and everything else, with me. 
He lives at the Hamilton House, but is in close 
touch with me by telephone and bicycle. . . . 
Helen has been gone an hour and a half, and 
will have to be severely scolded. Did you ever 
try to scold an angel-fish? I think a person 



138 Mark Twain 

i 

could learn to do it. But he would have to have 
considerable practice. 

Good-bye. Affectionately, 

S. L. C. 

There was added, in a childish hand, the 
following apology : 

Mr. Clemens wants me to say I am sorry. 
So I say I am sorry. 

Helen S. — A — , Secy. 

The last letter bears date of March 12th. 

Dear Betsy: 

• • • • 

If I were to start over again I would be a 
Reformer. I certainly would. There would be 
an increasing interest in it that would pay hand- 
somely for all the hostilities I should raise. 

I wish you had given me the name of your 
pretty and sweet friend who sailed for Bermuda 
the other day. I would have hunted her up. 
You know that, well enough. Maybe she looked 
for us in the donkey-cart — but I haven't been 
in it. Helen requires swifter transportation 
than that. 

You ought to be here now! The weather is 
divine; and you know what it is to drive along 
the North Shore in such weather and watch the 
sun paint the waters. We had that happiness 
today. The joy of it never stales. . . . 



Letters 139 



There are no newspapers, no telegrams, no 
mobiles, no trolleys, no trains, no tramps, no 
railways, no theatres, no noise, no lectures, no 
riots, no murders, no fires, no burglaries, no 
politics, no offenses of any kind, no follies but 
church, and I don't go there. I think I could 
live here always and be contented. 

You go to heaven if you want to — I 'd 
druther stay here. 

As ever affectionately, 

S. L. C. 

P. S. I have been reading Chapter XIII of 
"A Yankee in King Arthur's Court." Bless you. 
I find it good. 

Six weeks later, his friend and official 
biographer, Albert Bigelow Paine, wrote me: 
" Yes, he is resting. If you had seen his calm 
face as I saw it for the last time on Sunday, 
you would know how peacefully." 

And so the King left us. But the Happy 
Island, where we learned to know him and 
love him, will always be for us enchanted 
ground, and his throne is secure in the king- 
dom of our hearts. 



THE END 



run B9 



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